Another Hero: Season One
by rainysfeverdreams
Summary: A Doyle-centric retelling of AtS Season One. Begins at the end of my alternate "Hero" story, aptly titled "Another Hero." (Can be read without reading the prequel.)
1. From the Ashes, Pt 1

**Title:** ANOTHER HERO: Season One

 **Summary:** A Doyle-centric retelling of the first season. That means, all Doyle, all the time.

 **Pairing:** Cordy/Doyle, of course! Getting all the things they never got onscreen. If you love them, then this _is_ the fic you're looking for.

 **A/N:** This story continues directly after the events of **Another Hero** , in which _You're Welcome_ -era Cordelia was given one day to set things right, and using that day, she saved Doyle from the Beacon, but first she kissed him and gave him a vision of the future. It isn't absolutely necessary to read that story in order to read this one, but it adds some nice flavor. Naturally, I recommend it. ;)

Okay, enough babbling from me. Now I give you Doyle. Lots and lots of Doyle...

* * *

 **"From the Ashes," Part I**

Her inhuman scream still lingered in the air.

Doyle had been standing, briefly, before falling back down to his knees. Or, at least, he would have fallen to his knees, if Angel hadn't gotten there in time to catch him.

Cordelia was dead. She had died to save him. He couldn't figure out what had possessed her to do it. She must have seen that he couldn't get up—the vision had paralyzed him, making it impossible for him to do what he'd been intending to do. And in that moment, she had opted to sacrifice herself, rather than let them all die. Which made it his fault that she was dead. He felt his stomach roll over at that revelation, certain that he would lose whatever limited contents it contained.

Doyle didn't care that he was firmly embraced in the arms of a vampire, with absolutely zero ability to stand on his own. He also didn't care that tears had been streaming down his face, even before he'd seen Cordelia incinerated. The vision had been especially brutal. Longer than most other visions, it had been intense and much too confusing for him to decipher in his current despondent state. Right now he was simply trying to remember how to breathe properly.

"It's my fault, man." He heard an unfamiliar voice croak, and was barely able to identify it as his own.

Angel said nothing, he just held his friend there, sharing his grief, but knowing it wasn't comparable. Angel had been fond of Cordelia, but it was Doyle that had loved her. There were no words to help someone through that kind of loss. Which is why he offered his arms rather than his voice.

Instead, words came from an unexpected source.

"Excuse me…"

Angel looked up to see Rieff's father standing before them, having ascended the stairs from the lower level. "I don't mean to…" He looked nervous and apologetic as he saw the broken man whom Angel was holding upright. "It's just… your friend, Cordelia. She's alive."

Doyle's head snapped up at the demon's words, and he suddenly had plenty of strength to step away from Angel and scan the floor below with his eyes. "Where?" He demanded, his voice ragged with a despair that went bone deep. "Where is she?"

Angel hadn't moved, staring disbelievingly at the small demon before him. "She couldn't have survived that." Angel said, keeping his voice muted.

"Did you see her?" Doyle asked, whirling around from the edge of the platform and stepping close to Rieff's father. "Did she fall?!" The desperation in his voice had to have been heartbreaking to anyone within earshot. Angel could barely take it.

"She's not in here." The demon replied. "The Promised One..." He pointed to the now burnt out husk of the Beacon, where a woman who looked like Cordelia had recently perished. "She took Cordelia's place just a little while ago."

Angel shook his head in confusion, his voice breaking slightly. "The Promised… _that_ was Cordelia." He insisted, starting to get angry at the thought of this demon giving them false hope, only to have it crushed so quickly.

"Not my Cordy." Doyle mumbled from behind Angel, causing the vampire to turn and give his friend a quizzical look. Doyle clenched his fists, meeting Angel's eyes. "She told me that." Uncertainty crept into his features as he added, "I think."

"That was the truth." The demon confirmed. "Your friend is still outside."

And with that, Doyle took off toward one of the hatches, slamming his fists against it frantically. Angel joined him there, holding him back so he wouldn't break any bones doing something pointless that would get them no closer to discovering if the demon's words were true. Doyle pulled away from Angel's grip almost violently. "I need to get out there." He cried in frustration.

"Then we'll have to climb." Angel replied, pointing to the only opening within the cargo bay—the top, where the Beacon had been lowered inside.

Doyle followed Angel's gaze upward, and gave him an understanding nod, immediately morphing into his demon form. Side-by-side, the two men returned to the platform, each leaping to the Beacon, still dangling in the center of the room. They climbed the thick chain that held it in place. Once they reached the deck of the ship, Doyle led the way down the ramp, heading to the dock below.

"Cordelia!" Doyle shouted into the brisk, night air. He was still wearing his demon face, which was why he didn't need her to answer to know she was, in fact, out there somewhere. He could smell her scent in the air. She was close. He sensed Angel on his heels as he made a beeline for the stack of crates off to the side of the pier. He morphed back into his human visage as he rounded the corner…

And there she was. _His_ Cordy. Bound and gagged and looking mightily pissed off.

He had never seen a more beautiful sight in his entire life.

"Oh, thank God!" He dropped to his knees at her side, reaching to ungag her first and then, pulling her to his body tightly, not bothering to untie the rest of her restraints. "Thought I'd lost ya." He choked into her hair.

"Well, you're gonna lose something, if you don't untie me!" She cried shrilly in his ear. She had been tied up in a very uncomfortable position and both her wrists as well as her head were killing her. Not to mention the fact that she'd been sitting out on the dock freezing for the better part of an hour. Her foul mood didn't seem to deter him from his crushing hold on her. She must've sensed the desperate waves coming off him, because she toned down her annoyance and tried again. "Doyle… I'm okay. Can you let go now and get this stinky fishnet stuff off me?"

He sat back as if just realizing she was still tied at the wrists and ankles. "O'course. Sorry, love, it's just…"

"You thought you'd lost me. I get it." She cut him off, holding out her wrists in offering. He carefully worked on the knot, trying not to chafe her skin. His eyes darted worriedly up to the nasty bump on her forehead.

"What happened, Cordelia?" Angel asked, kneeling down beside Doyle to untie the rope around her ankles. "Who did this to you?"

"I have no idea." She huffed, retracting her hands as Doyle finally pulled the knot free. She rubbed at the irritated skin around her wrists. "I was standing on the dock waiting for Doyle and that demon kid and WHAM! Lights out. I woke up like this."

Doyle reached out his hand and lightly brushed his thumb across the knot on her head. "Ah… ya took a good hit there, Princess." She inhaled sharply and he pulled away, but her reaction had not been caused by pain. His hug had already done things to her that she'd rather not acknowledge, and now his light caress combined with the concern in his eyes had her stomach floating out to the sea beside her. This was neither the time nor the place for her to be feeling these things, especially not when she still had a bone to pick with him.

As Doyle reached out a hand to help Cordelia to her feet, she swatted it away, pushing herself up on her own. "Why didn't you tell me you were half-demon?!" She demanded, letting her nearly forgotten anger bubble to the surface. He had been lying to her since the day they met.

Angel backpedaled a bit, gesturing toward the Quintessa. "I'll tell the Captain to shove off." He disappeared without further word, leaving Doyle to fend for himself with an outraged Cordelia.

Doyle had choked on the question, thinking he'd already been through this once tonight, but realizing the person he'd had that conversation with wasn't the girl currently standing in front of him. He found himself saying much the same thing he'd said earlier. He had no better explanation than that. "I wanted to tell ya…I was afraid. I thought you'd reject me if y'knew."

She leveled him with a disapproving frown. "Hello! I've rejected you every day since I first met you, Doyle. I've rejected you for your clothes and your empty bank account, not to mention the vertical challenges you face. So what if you're half-demon?! I can't believe you thought I'd care about that."

He shook his head in wonderment. This conversation was giving him a strange feeling of Déjà vu, and it made him hopeful that he knew how it was going to end. He started to open his mouth, thinking of what he should say next, but she continued. "Is there anything else you're hiding from me? Any other Doyle-related revelations I should know before…?" She trailed off, and he could see that her eyes were hard. She wasn't nearly as lighthearted as the other Cordelia had been when this conversation took place.

"Before what, darlin'?" He asked encouragingly, willing her to say the words the other Cordelia had said. To tell him that she wanted him anyway, despite knowing what he truly was. He needed her to say it, more than he'd realized the first time.

"Before I freeze to death out here." She gritted through clenched teeth. "Just tell me everything, right now. Secrets are bad, remember?"

He sighed with a hint of disappointment, but gave her a smile all the same. "The half-demon thing is pretty much my big secret."

"Good." She replied, stepping closer to him, but only so she could continue walking past. "It's out. That's done."

He held his breath, hoping she would deliver that one last line, but she was already several steps away and when she finally turned back to face him, she gave him a puzzled look. "Are you coming? I was serious about the freezing to death thing. I need something warm to drink. Stat!"

She turned and headed toward the truck and he wished he wasn't quite as disappointed as he felt. He should've known better—the Cordelia who had accepted him and wanted to date him and who had kissed him willingly and eagerly, wasn't his Cordelia at all.

But, who was she? And why had she been so eager to sacrifice herself for him?

* * *

Cordelia watched as Doyle stared vacantly out the window of the truck as they drove back to the office. She could tell he was a million miles away, and as much as she'd been through that evening, it seemed he'd been through far more. Exhaustion was evident in his features, but there was something else. Something that she couldn't readily identify. She'd heard Angel ask him about a vision, but Doyle had mumbled something about it not making any sense. She could tell that it was better to stay silent in the seat beside Doyle, rather than immediately starting an inquisition. And, truthfully, she wasn't ready for the inquisition to take place. She didn't even know where to start. She had so many questions, about him, about them, about why he'd nearly suffocated her upon finding her tied up outside the Quintessa, about what actually happened on the Quintessa.

As they all shuffled tiredly into the small office space, Cordelia noticed that Doyle hovered by the front door, still visibly in his funk. "I'll take the truck tonight. Bring it back to the rental place in the morning." He didn't wait for a reply, instead disappearing back out the door he'd just entered. Cordelia stared at the door that closed behind him, wondering what exactly she'd missed earlier that evening.

She followed Angel into his office and watched as he took off his coat, hanging it on the rack in the corner. "What's wrong with Doyle?" She asked. "Why's he acting so weird?"

Angel sat down heavily behind his desk. "It was a weird night."

She took the seat across from him, as he placed his elbows on the desk and rubbed at his brow. He was going to have to give her a little more than that. "I want to know what happened on the ship. Everything."

Angel sighed, leaning back in his chair and trying to give her the simplest overview possible. Although, there was no simple way to explain certain circumstances that had occurred. "We were trapped. The Scourge had this doomsday device they lowered into the cargo hold—it would've incinerated everyone with human DNA for half a mile. Somebody had to disarm it, but it was a suicide mission."

"Oh, God." Cordelia reacted. "Someone died on the ship? Was it that demon kid? Doyle tried really hard to help him. Maybe that's why he's taking it so hard."

"It wasn't Rieff." Angel replied eying her thoughtfully. "I had intended for it to be me, but Doyle stopped me." He paused momentarily, perhaps wondering how honest he should be with her. "He punched me, knocked me to the lower level of the ship so he'd be clear to disarm it himself without me being able to stop him."

Cordelia's stomach churned at that admission. Doyle had intended to complete a suicide mission, which meant… "He was willing to die to save everyone?" Her voice came out sounding much smaller than she'd intended.

Angel nodded, confirming that they'd come extremely close to losing him that night.

"What stopped him?" She asked, a delayed panic creeping into her chest. "Did the doomsday thingie malfunction?"

"You stopped him." Angel said simply. Her face was a mask of confusion as he clarified. "Someone that looked like you was on that boat with us. She stopped Doyle from sacrificing himself and she died in his place."

Cordelia's eyes went very wide at that revelation. She couldn't wrap her mind around all the details just yet. "I don't understand."

"I don't understand it myself." Angel admitted, meeting her perplexed gaze with a similar one of his own. "We thought you were dead, Cordelia. We both watched you die."

"Oh." She replied, at a loss for anything more profound. That certainly explained why Doyle was so happy to see her all tied up outside the boat, and why he'd been so touchy-feely for that matter. Another thought occurred to her. "What did the other me do? I mean... how did she stop Doyle from sacrificing himself?"

Angel's jaw unhinged slightly and he took too long of a pause for it to be natural. He shifted a bit as he answered. "I didn't have a great view, to be honest."

"You were evil for over a century and you are _still_ the worst liar I know." Cordelia scoffed. "Just tell me what happened."

"I didn't have a great view." He insisted defensively. "But, it looked like she might have... kissed him."

This time Cordelia's mouth formed the O that her voice didn't bother to speak.

"That wasn't the only thing that stopped him." Angel continued, now wishing he'd skipped that part. "It delayed him, and then he had a vision. By the time he recovered, you—the other you—was too far gone to save."

"Sounds like we should be thankful for the other me." She said wistfully, for lack of any other suitable response. She could feel the shivers that had been unleashed within her body at the thought of having to leave that dock without Doyle. The thought of never seeing him again. She didn't even realize she was going to speak aloud, and when she did her voice was barely a whisper. "We almost lost him tonight."

"It was close." Angel admitted. "Too close. It shouldn't have happened." He shook his head in frustration, remembering the powerless feeling of knowing that if Doyle had jumped in his place, there was nothing he could have done to stop it. Whoever that person wearing Cordelia's face was, he would have liked to kiss her himself. She saved his best friend. She saved them all.

Cordelia sat chewing her lip, trying to keep herself from losing it completely. Doyle had almost died. _Her_ Doyle. If that had happened, he would've never even had a chance to become her Doyle. Not really. And then she felt a wave of anger break over her. He was willing to do it! He was willing to get himself killed without ever having a chance to see what could've happened between them. She knew it was irrational to be angry, when his act was selfless—he had been willing to save Angel and a boat full of others, including someone he thought was her.

That's right, there was another Cordelia on that boat. She wasn't sure whether she should be flattered that he'd kissed someone who looked like her or jealous that it had happened at all. She landed somewhere halfway in between.

"Cordelia?" Angel might have been calling her name for several seconds for all she knew. She had been so deep in her own thoughts, she'd forgotten he was there staring at her. "You should go home. Get some sleep."

She nodded absently, slowly standing from her chair. "Yeah, okay… Goodnight, Angel."

With that she headed home, feeling like she was hitting the entire emotional spectrum in one night; finally understanding why Doyle had looked the way he did earlier that evening.

* * *

Doyle sat in his dim and cluttered studio apartment, scribbling furiously in a marble-covered notebook he had found on his bookshelf. A remnant of his past as a grade school teacher, the book was mostly empty when he'd picked it up. Now several pages were filled with random words and crude drawings—an attempt to download the massive vision he had received in the belly of the Quintessa. A vision he had received directly from her. The other Cordelia.

Now that he'd had time to digest the vision and analyze it, one thing was clear. It wasn't a message from the Powers That Be, not directly anyway. It wasn't meant for Angel. And while the majority of sights and sounds from the vision didn't make sense to Doyle, there was one image that stood out rather vividly. Cordelia and Angel, standing on the platform in the Quintessa, mourning his death. It stood to reason that the death in question had been caused when he'd disarmed the Beacon, leaving them with nothing but a memory. It was unsettling, how clear that portion of the vision had been—he had died; he was supposed to be dead. And he wasn't dead because she had saved him. The other Cordelia who had proclaimed that she wasn't "his Cordy," had saved him. She was the product of losing him and living years without him. For whatever reason and through whatever unusual means, she had been able to travel through time, save his life and leave him with a visionary set of breadcrumbs to follow. Therefore, all the meaningless mumbo jumbo he was scratching across the formerly blank white note pages, would eventually become very meaningful. The notes would eventually save lives and alter a future that had somehow gone off-track—assuming he could interpret everything properly, which he wasn't entirely sure he could.

He knew he could follow the boldest order of business: stay by Angel's side and keep fighting the good fight; no matter what. Considering that was already Doyle's plan, those weren't exactly earth-shattering instructions. What was earth-shattering was the implication that he could somehow change things for the better. Since he couldn't readily tell what had gone wrong in the first place—aside from his untimely death, which let's face it, probably wasn't that catastrophic in the grand scheme—it was all too much for him to accept. He paused from his scribbling to lift the half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey sitting on the floor beside him. He'd been nursing it slowly, trying to keep his brain clear while he downloaded the dense material from it, but now that he'd gotten most of it on the page, he chugged deeply, welcoming the numbness that accompanied the burning liquid.

The warmth he felt inside his body from the alcohol, reminded him of the warmth he'd felt earlier that evening. The kiss he'd shared with the other Cordelia. It had been every bit as intoxicating as the whiskey. She had anticipated that he would kiss her, and had kissed him back willingly. Doyle had always believed you could tell a lot about a person by kissing them. Which is why he'd instilled that kiss with everything he'd had, believing it would be the last time he'd ever have human contact. And wanting, more than anything, for that last bit of contact to be filled with all the love he had to give. If he could leave Cordelia with that, dying wouldn't be so bad. What he'd never expected, was to feel the same coming from her. That other Cordelia—she had loved him? Was that possible? Assuming he had died on that boat in her reality, she wouldn't have had much more reason to love him than his own Cordelia currently did. That would mean _his_ Cordelia was capable of loving him, assuming his death wasn't the only reason she ever had loved him in the first place.

He took another deep chug, at that complex thought. It occurred to him how selfish it was to be sitting there obsessing over the love of one woman, when he'd just had the fate of the world dropped into his lap. Talk about priorities. But, as he flipped backwards through all the pages he'd scribbled nonsense across, he had to focus on something that didn't paralyze him completely. There weren't many things he'd ever wanted to focus on more than _his_ Cordy—and the possibility that she'd become _his_ in every sense of the word. Paralysis was not an option, where she was concerned.

Another sip from his bottle and he felt the effects of the alcohol take a firm hold. The notebook on his lap slid to the floor, landing with a dull thud. He'd be lucky if he could get to his bed at this point, which was why he didn't bother. He was no stranger to passing out drunk on his couch, and at least this time, he had a really good reason for doing so. Granted, he'd always thought he had good reason. As far as he could tell, he was now on borrowed time. He no longer belonged to himself, he belonged to her and her legacy. The time she had given him would be used to keep the odds in Angel's favor. With every remaining breath he had. No compromises.

He would fight the good fight with his friends. And he intended for them to win.


	2. From the Ashes, Pt 2

**"From the Ashes," Part II**

Doyle was late for work the next morning, which he didn't think was such a big deal considering he'd almost died the night before. And, if he were being honest, it really wasn't all that unusual. He'd been late for work more often than he'd been on time. Good thing his boss was a late-riser as well. Of course, this morning's lateness was made worse by the fact that he was supposed to drop off the truck at the rental place and had completely forgotten to do so. He also knew he looked like hell, thanks to the previous night's foray into a bottle of whiskey. Overall, it wasn't his best morning ever, but getting to see Cordelia's beautiful smiling face usually managed to turn things around for him even on the worst of mornings. This morning he had an added layer of anticipation—hoping that it might finally be the right time to ask her out. She knew he was a demon and she seemed to accept it fairly easily. The only thing standing in his way was nerves, which really shouldn't stop him, considering how fearless he'd felt when he was _thisclose_ to jumping to his death the previous night.

It also helped to remind him that life was too short to waste another moment.

Yes, today was definitely going to be the day.

"'Mornin, Princess."

As he entered the front door, he was disappointed to find that he was not greeted by that beautiful smiling face he had anticipated. Instead, his normally bright and bubbly Cordelia was a stone wall of what looked suspiciously like indifference.

"You're late." She said, without looking up from her computer.

This was definitely not what he'd expected from her. Truthfully, he never knew what to expect from her, which was part of the allure, but she seemed unusually frigid this morning. It didn't seem to fit with the life-and-death drama of the previous evening.

"Ah... yeah, well... I hadda bring the truck back and all that. And I got kinda a late start to begin with." He replied, approaching the front of her desk warily.

"You mean the truck that's sitting out front?" She responded, still not bothering to give him eye contact.

"Ya noticed that, huh?" He sighed, trying his most endearingly innocent look. And it might have worked, had she actually looked up at him. "How's the head?" He asked gesturing to the visible bump on her temple that she had only partially been able to cover with makeup.

"Hurts." She said plainly.

"Cordy... uh... is everything else okay? Ya seem a little..."

"Busy?" She offered, finally turning her head to meet his gaze. Although, once he saw the cold, hard stare she leveled him with, he instantly regretted wishing for the eye contact. "Because that's what I am. Busy. _Someone_ has to do some work around here, and we'd be going out of business faster than you can say 'bankruptcy' if I waited for you to pitch in."

Well, that seemed overly harsh. Any intentions he had of asking her out, died on the vine. Today was most definitely not the day.

"Hey, I'm vision guy, remember?" He whined defensively. "If having my entire nervous system regularly hijacked by the Powers That Be isn't pitching in, I don't know what is."

Cordelia turned back toward the keyboard in front of her, slowly tapping the keys, with much more force than necessary. "Right. And I'm sure the Powers That Be also made you drink until you passed out in a pool of your own vomit last night. Not to mention the night before..."

That was a clear cue for Doyle to back away. She wasn't just in a bad mood, she was fighting dirty. Hitting him where it hurt. "There was no vomit." He mumbled without much conviction, sliding toward the coffee maker, which held a sludgy substance that provided the aroma of something vaguely resembling coffee. He lifted the carafe and inspected the sludge, debating whether or not his stomach could handle whatever-it-was. At that moment, she rose from her desk abruptly, slinging her purse over her shoulder.

"Coffee break." She yelled toward Angel's office, stomping past Doyle on the way to the front door without so much as a second glance. He didn't have to wonder if she was planning on bringing anything back for him. Not unless it was laced with strychnine.

Once she was gone, Doyle gave up on the sludgy coffee-like substance and headed into Angel's office instead. He plopped himself into one of the two chairs across from where his vampire boss sat behind the desk and waited for Angel to look up at him questioningly. Which he did, as predicted.

"What's her problem?" Doyle asked, jerking his thumb toward the front door that Cordelia had so recently exited. "Ya think maybe she'd cut a guy a break, after he almost dies and all that. Instead, she musta spent the morning sharpening her claws."

Angel leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk. It made him look wise, which Doyle hoped, meant he had some helpful insight. "It's hard to tell with Cordelia, but I think she's upset." Angel hedged.

Nope. Not at all helpful.

"Yeah, ya think?" Doyle replied, utilizing his best "duh" expression. "I can tell the girl's upset. The question is _why_ she's so upset? What happened after I left here last night?"

"I told her what happened on the ship." Angel said with a shrug. "I don't think she took it well that you were so willing to sacrifice yourself. I mean, remember how she got when I was human for a day?" Angel paused, grimacing as he realized what he'd just said. "No, I guess you don't remember that. But, trust me, she wasn't happy about it. And, this time… well, you almost _died_. That definitely didn't sit well with her." Angel paused, giving Doyle a meaningful stare. "It didn't sit well with me either."

A bad feeling settled into Doyle's stomach, and along with it a mild wave of nausea. "Angel, man. Please tell me ya left out the part where I was kissing someone who happened to look a lot like her?"

Angel's chagrined expression answered Doyle's question even before his apologetic words. "Cordelia's a pretty good lie detector. I felt like she could see right through me. I don't know how you managed to get the demon thing past her for as long as you did."

Doyle lifted a hand to his tired and aching eyes, rubbing them absently. "It was a struggle, man. I suppose she could still be a bit sore about that as well, yeah?"

"Probably." Angel agreed. "I'm sure she'll get over it. She just needs some time."

"She'd better." Doyle replied. "Or else I'm liable to be getting frostbite out there in those conditions!"

As Doyle fell silent, Angel kept his gaze steadfastly on his friend, waiting to see if he'd offer any additional information about the strange occurrences of the previous night without Angel having to ask. Doyle shifted in his seat, getting ready to stand, which gave Angel his answer.

"What happened last night, Doyle?" Angel asked abruptly, causing Doyle to freeze in his spot. "I mean, what really happened? Who was that woman who saved us?"

Doyle threw his hands up in the air. "What makes ya think I know?" He replied. "She looked like Cordy to me."

"But she wasn't." Angel pointed out. "She told you she wasn't. I know there's something else you aren't telling me. I let it go last night, but now you need to come clean. What did you see in that vision?"

Doyle chose his next words carefully, unsure if he should tell Angel everything, but desperately wanting to unload the burden. The stress of keeping a secret as big as this one was already eating through his stomach lining. Why shouldn't he let his best friend co-shoulder the weight of the future? He was the actual champion in all this. Doyle was just a messenger. Which is why he made his decision, to deliver the message that had been entrusted to him. "She was my guardian angel, man." Doyle said simply. "I'm supposed to be dead right now, and thanks to Cordelia, I'm not."

"But she wasn't really Cordelia." Angel said again, as if explaining a math problem to a very small child.

"She was _really_ Cordelia." Doyle rebutted. "If ya add a few years and kill a few friends."

Angel's brow furrowed at that response and it took him a moment to formulate a reply. "She was from the future? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"That's exactly what I'm tellin' ya." Doyle confirmed. "That vision I had was jam-packed with images of things that may or may not happen, depending on how much my being here changes things."

"Because you're supposed to be dead." Angel said gravely.

"I am, at that." Doyle replied, leaning back in his chair and pursing his lips thoughtfully. "It's a real head-trip, yeah? Knowing I'm supposed to be dead and there was an entire future without me, only to be saved by a girl who doesn't seem to like me very much to begin with."

Angel shook his head, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Doyle had died. He had let his friend die. And he hadn't been the one to come back and save him? "The Oracles." Angel uttered.

Doyle nodded, unsurprised by Angel's desire to consult the Powers That Be through their earthly conduit. "I'm glad I won't have to be twisting your arm 'bout going to see 'em. I wasn't looking forward to escaping death only to be turned into a toad for sticking my nose where it doesn't belong."

"They've never been all that helpful before." Angel acknowledged distractedly. "Makes you wonder..."

"All I've been doing is wondering. I mean, not for nothing, but I've never known the Powers to allow something as big as this to go down. Rewinding a day is one thing, but this must've been years. All just to keep me from playing the hero."

"You must be important." Angel countered, standing up from behind his desk and giving his friend an appraising nod.

"No, mate, it's not me that's important. It's you." Doyle clarified, not bothering to remove himself from the chair. "Someone up there thought I was important enough to _you_ , to keep me around. Oddly enough, it seems that someone is Cordelia."

Angel came around the desk and nudged Doyle's shoulder. "Well, come on. If I'm going to get myself turned into a toad on your behalf, I'd like you to be there to catch me and put me in a nice cage."

Doyle reluctantly stood from his chair and followed Angel toward the front door. "Oh, they wouldn't dare turn _you_ into a toad, Mr. Big-Important-Champion-who-can-have-time-rewound-whenever-he-wants. That's reserved for the homely-looking messenger-types, like yours truly."

* * *

"You try our patience. Why do you return?"

The male Oracle gave his usual warm greeting, but Angel knew the drill by now. He held up a small globe, with aged bronze griffins built into the base. "Coronelli Griffin Globe. Renaissance era." It flew from his hand and landed in the hand of the female Oracle who smiled down at it admiringly.

"He brings me the world as a gift. We will listen."

He was thankful that she was easy enough to please. Her brother was a different story. "Speak quickly. We tire of your trivial inquiries."

"Oh yeah? Do you really find it so trivial that time has been altered again?" Angel spat back at the male Oracle, maybe gloating just a bit. "I thought 'temporal folds were not to indulge lower beings?'"

"This was not done to appease a lower being." The female Oracle assured him.

"She who was owed, chose life for the messenger, rather than death." The male Oracle deadpanned. "And so it shall be."

"And that's it?" Angel asked in disbelief. "Doyle died but now he gets to live? What happened to the woman who saved him?"

"The messenger, whose life you once begged for, shall continue to live until he does not." The female Oracle explained, as if nothing could possibly make more sense than that.

"She who was granted his life, is no more." The male oracle added, and perhaps, Angel was imagining it, but he sounded snider than before. "She shall never be."

"And yet she remains. In another form." The female oracle chimed in.

"It _was_ Cordelia." Angel mumbled in awe. Although, he couldn't for the life of him imagine why the Powers That Be would feel beholden to Cordelia Chase of all people. Or why they would consider her something other than a lower being. He turned his focus back on the golden-skinned figures before him. "What does it mean? What are we supposed to do?"

"You do what you've always done, warrior." The female Oracle said simply.

"It is the messenger who must yield the responsibility of this new path." The male Oracle said.

"He will prevent that which should never happen." The female Oracle added.

"And maintain that, which was always meant to be." The male Oracle said with finality.

"How will he know which is which?" Angel asked.

"The same way he has always known." The female Oracle replied.

"But how can I help him?" Angel demanded, knowing his time with the Oracles was rapidly running out and not feeling that he'd gotten much useful information. Basically, it was like every other time he'd seen them.

"This mission is his alone." The male Oracle said impatiently. "There will be no further inquiries." He waved his hand, sending Angel flying out of the room and careening into a waiting Doyle.

"It didn't work?" Doyle asked worriedly.

Angel stood up, brushing himself off. "It worked." He gave Doyle an uneasy look. "You were right. Time has been altered."

Doyle observed Angel's grave expression, "Why do I get the feelin' I'm not gonna like whatever else they told ya?"

* * *

Doyle took the elevator upstairs from Angel's apartment and found Cordelia alone in the front office, flipping through a magazine. She didn't bother to look up as he entered the room, indicating that her icy mood had not yet thawed. He sighed heavily to himself, observing the closed-off girl before him; wondering how she could have possibly become the woman who had changed the course of history in order to save his life. Despite the Oracles confirming all his suspicions, he couldn't reconcile his Cordy, with that other Cordelia.

All that aside, he had to try and break through to _his_ Cordy. He couldn't go backwards, not when he'd been so close to getting through to her before all this chaos erupted.

"That's… ah… a lovely blouse you're wearing there." Doyle admired, shoving his hands in his pockets and sauntering closer to her desk. "The color really suits you."

"It's red." She growled in reply. "Red suits everyone. That's why they write songs about it."

At least she wasn't giving him the silent treatment.

"Well, it especially suits _you_. The color of passion." He enthused, sitting down on the edge of her desk and peeking down at the magazine she was supposedly reading. She was flipping pages so rapidly, he couldn't imagine she was actually absorbing anything other than the occasional papercut. "And your hair. It's looking so… voluminous. Are ya using a new shampoo?"

She shook her head tightly, rolling her eyes so hard he thought they'd get stuck in the back of her head. "Same shampoo as always."

"How was your coffee break?" He tried a new approach, hearing the gentle whir of the elevator as Angel ascended from his apartment to his office.

"Fine." She said, turning the next page so hard that it nearly ripped out of the magazine, causing him to lean back a little, afraid of getting his nose sliced off. "How was yours?" She asked tightly. "You and Angel out comparing your translucent complexions and tendency to sleep half the day away?" She looked up from her magazine, eyes cold and dark. "Sometimes I forget which of you is the vampire in this office."

Doyle took the insult in stride, but could no longer ignore the fact that she was harboring an unusually high level of anger toward him. "Ya ready to tell me what's bothering ya, Princess?"

"Nothing's bothering me." She replied, her tone belying her words. "Aside from your lack of work ethic, terrible fashion sense and annoying questions."

"Why are ya so angry then?" He asked.

"I'm not angry." She insisted, slamming her magazine shut. She paused and then stood up, eyes flashing with the anger she claimed not to feel. "Okay, fine. I am angry! But… I don't know why, exactly. I just know that I don't feel like being nice to you today."

"So different from all those other days when you're sweet as pie, huh?" Doyle almost cracked a smile at her admission, but tried his best to hide it, figuring it'd only infuriate her further. It was probably unnatural that he'd be so amused by a beautiful woman being inexplicably furious with him, but in this case, it wasn't actually a bad thing. Any genuine emotion from Cordelia was a positive one in his book. "Well, ya wouldn't be the first woman to be angry at me for no good reason, I'll tell ya that much."

"Give me a minute. I'm sure I'll think of a perfectly good one." She fired back.

He remained seated on the edge of her desk, admiring how attractive she looked when she was angry. It was almost worth riling her up just to see her like this. This was a woman he could spend the rest of his life arguing with… as long as they got to make up a whole lot afterwards. "Ya think it might have something to do with me almost dying last night?" He asked carefully, knowing how defensive she could get if pushed too hard to reveal her true feelings. "Maybe you were worried and scared and now you're transferring all that into anger instead?"

She took a deep breath as if she was going to lay back into him, but instead she released it and answered in a much calmer voice than he was expecting. "Maybe. Yeah. I think that could be why." She admitted, the icy veneer melting slightly.

Doyle smiled for real this time. "Well… I think that's kinda nice." He said. "You being worried about me. Shows ya care."

Now that the ice had melted away, he could see a whirlwind of emotion in her eyes. Her lips trembled and her nostrils flared as she edged back toward anger, but a much more passionate variety of anger. Gone was the Ice Queen, replaced by a fiery inferno. Lord, if he thought she looked sexy before… "I shouldn't have to be worried about you! Why would you do something so stupid?!" She demanded. "Why would you ever even _consider_ …?" Her throat caught, but she swallowed through it and continued. "Don't you know that Angel is the big hero around here? Not you! You're, like, the opposite of a hero, with your bad habits and worse fashion sense. Heroes can die. Doyles cannot!"

He arched a brow at that one, trying to decide if he should be terribly offended or just plain flattered she wanted him alive. "Well… I thought it might be a good idea to save the hero for another day, yeah?"

She took a shaky breath. "If you died, I'd be all alone here! Did you even think about that as you were volunteering to incinerate yourself for a boatload of _demons_?!" She wailed.

"I was savin' you as well, mind ya." Doyle defended himself, for lack of any other appropriate response. He tried hard to ignore her rather insensitive 'boatload of demons' comment. It stung more than he wanted it to. "Anyway, you wouldn't have been alone. Angel woulda still been here. If he hasn't fired ya by now, love, he ain't planning to. Trust me on that one."

"Angel is my boss! Angel doesn't have a pulse! Angel and I, we aren't… it's not the same, y'know?" She argued, but the fight was slowly draining out of her body.

Cordelia's voice had gotten a little softer as she completed her last sentence and Doyle couldn't help but feel incredibly pleased by what she was insinuating. Sure, he already knew his relationship with her was a lot different than Angel's, but the way she made it sound, like Doyle was all she had—well, it made him want to be there for her even more. He probably should have known better than to keep pushing after she'd already revealed so much, but when he glimpsed that softer part of her, he wanted to reach out and grab it before it disappeared again. "I know." He agreed gently. "I think that means something, yeah?"

He watched her wrestle with the question… before readjusting her armor. She faced him with a full coat of metal as she responded. "I think it means I need to meet more people in this city. That way, if you do get yourself killed, I'll still have a friend with a heartbeat."

Doyle's hopefulness deflated a bit and then continued to deflate as he heard the rest of her tirade. "Speaking of meeting new people, I hear you got pretty friendly with the Cordelia imposter. Care to explain what that was all about?"

Doyle shifted his weight on the edge of the desk, turning away from her. "I know Angel already told ya what happened."

"Yeah, he did. And how lame was that?" She asked haughtily. "You couldn't tell the difference between me and some slutty _demon_ -lady who borrowed my face?! God, Doyle, don't you know me at all?!"

Something about the way she said the word demon hit Doyle where it hurt the most. It was the second derogatory demon statement she'd made in as many minutes, and it felt a lot different knowing that she was now aware of who and what he was. He could handle the majority of her barbs, but he saw red as he lashed back at her. "Yeah, I do know ya, darlin'. There was no mistakin' her for you!"

Her eyebrows went up in surprise at his gruff retort. She had hurt his feelings countless times, but she'd never gotten him angry enough to raise his voice at her. Her mouth fell open, but no sound came out, which was a rare thing to behold—Cordelia Chase, utterly speechless.

Doyle's voice came out rough and harsh even to his own ears. He'd probably hate himself later for losing his temper, but he couldn't help it. She'd pushed the wrong button—and he didn't have many of them to be pushed. He'd been trying to understand her and connect with her and all he'd gotten for it was another wound on top of all the rest.

"The so-called _demon-lady_ on that boat was nice to me!" He shouted, standing up to emphasize his point. "Instead of insulting me or, I dunno, _pushing me to my death_ , she saved my life. And, before she did that, she kissed me! So yeah, I had a pretty strong feeling she wasn't you, Princess. It's really too bad that she's gone, 'cause I rather liked her."

As it turned out, "later" was more instantaneous than he thought. He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, especially as he saw the stricken look on her face. He wasn't a big fan of making women cry, and his idea of getting through Cordelia's unbreakable armor, was not to have her tear up in front of him, but that's exactly what was happening. To her credit, she squared her shoulders, and clenched her jaw and the tears he'd briefly spotted evaporated before they had a chance to betray her.

He had managed to calm down enough to try and apologize. "Cordelia, I didn't mean that…"

But, it was too late. The apology had barely left his mouth when she snatched her purse off the chair and turned on her heel, fleeing the office for the second time that day. This time, she had good reason.

Doyle slunk back into Angel's office, and sat heavily in one of the chairs across from his desk. He noted that Angel was pretending like he hadn't heard the argument that had taken place in the office next door. Doyle knew that was pretty much impossible with his vampire hearing; and really, it wouldn't have taken vampire hearing to hear Doyle and Cordelia going at each other. Angel closed the book he had been pretending to read and gave Doyle a sympathetic look.

Doyle nodded slowly and then let his shoulders slump in defeat. "That probably could've gone better, yeah?"


	3. Parting Gifts, Pt 1

**A/N- Starting with this chapter you will recognize the basic plots, because yes, this is season one all over again. Except with Doyle front and center! I'll be clearly labeling all the chapters using the original episode names just in case some of you lovely readers would prefer to skip around to read only your favorite episodes. I do encourage you to give the less popular episodes a shot. Doyle might improve them considerably. And there will be character/relationship development along the way- skipping an episode might mean missing out on Cordy/Doyle cuteness! ;)**

* * *

 **"Parting Gifts," Part I**

"Can I get ya a cuppa coffee, love?"

Doyle stood at the coffee maker, pouring himself a cup of toxic sludge, doing everything he could to make up for the fight they'd had the other day. He'd spent the entire weekend wondering if he should call her and clear the air, but then figured it might be best to let her cool down. Cooling down wasn't really the problem, however. Things couldn't get any cooler, judging by the subzero conditions he was currently experiencing that morning.

Yes, it was back to square one for ol' Doyle. The Ice Queen cometh.

"You already asked me if I wanted coffee. Five times." She said with a sigh. She sat at her desk, shuffling through some paperwork that probably wasn't as important as she made it appear. "And unless you're planning to go to Columbia to get it, the answer's _still_ no."

He sidled up to the edge of her desk, leaning against it. "Well, if ya change your mind. I'm here, ready to do some pouring." He took a sip from his mug and tried to cover the grimace from the bitter taste of the contents. "And… well, Cordy… y'know, I also just wanted to say I'm sorry. Again."

She held up a hand, closing her eyes in mild frustration. "You already said that five times as well." She said. "Stop apologizing, Doyle." She opened her eyes once more and set her jaw. "It's not like you weren't telling the truth, right? Something I've always encouraged."

He shook his head, setting the cup of undrinkable coffee down on the desk beside him. "No, darlin'. That wasn't the truth. I lost my temper and I never meant to say those things to ya."

He was relieved she was actually speaking full sentences to him again. But, he didn't want her to feel bad about the things he'd said to her in anger. He knew her insults weren't really insults. They were defense mechanisms. Defenses she'd worked hard to build and maintain, and he'd worked hard to circumvent; he could have kicked himself for jeopardizing all the progress he'd made in a single irrational moment. "It was the demon thing, Cordy. One comment too many and I… Well, in case ya hadn't guessed, it's a pretty sore subject for me. Why d'ya think I hid it from ya in the first place?"

"It's fine, Doyle." She said, keeping her eyes firmly glued to whatever paperwork sat on the desk in front of her. That's the way it had been since the Quintessa. Barely any eye contact, barely any inflection in her voice. It was very discouraging, to say the least. They'd gotten so close in recent weeks, and it had seemed like they were about to get even closer and now things were "fine." Which translated to things being anything _but_ fine.

"Why is it such a sore subject?" She asked hesitantly, with a subtle raise of her brow. She still wasn't looking at him, but this was the first sentence she'd spoken to him that she'd initiated on her own. "It's who you are. Why hide it from me _?_ Why hide it from anyone?"

That's not where he had seen this conversation going, but if it opened up their lines of communication then he wasn't going to shut it down. "I was raised human." He said simply, moving away from the desk and sitting down on the green couch. Her eyes were now wide and curious and actually focused in his direction. At least it was a start, even if he'd rather be talking about anything other than this topic. "I never knew my dad. He was the demon. And when I found out what I was… I was already a married man. Wanting children and all that. Teaching children, as a matter o' fact. That's what I used to do for a livin', before all this."

"Oh." She said, although he was pretty certain she knew at least some of this information already, compliments of his ex-wife, Harriet. "You were just a normal guy, huh?"

"I'm still a normal guy, Princess." Doyle assured her, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Only I have to be careful not to sneeze in public. Let's just say, my demon face doesn't blend into a crowd nearly as well as Angel's does."

"That's not what I meant." She said, studying his face intently, looking like she wanted to say more.

He swallowed hard, knowing exactly what she meant. The life he'd led before had never caused demon loan-sharks to break his knee caps… or his neck. He'd had a job he loved. He'd lived in a pretty nice townhouse. He'd had a cat. Not to mention a beautiful, devoted wife who warmed his bed and his heart. Yeah, once upon a time, Allen Francis Doyle had it all. And just like that—demon blood ruined it all.

Actually, as he'd so recently discovered, _he_ ruined it all. Which was way worse.

"Does it bother ya?" He heard himself ask. His voice was thick and foreign to his ears. He wasn't even sure if he was asking about the demon thing or his lifestyle in general, knowing both of those things probably did bother her on some level. How could they not? They sure as hell bothered him.

Her nose scrunched up in reply, and his heart stopped in his chest as he imagined her answering in the affirmative. Instead, she said, "It bothers me that you didn't trust me enough to tell me. But, I guess that's not surprising, considering..."

"Considering what?" He studied her face closely, wondering if the demon thing really did bother her and she was just being too polite to say it—which made no sense, because Cordelia had never been too polite to say anything. He tried to remind himself of that, even as his insecurities fought to get the better of him.

An alarm on her watch went off and she stood abruptly.

"Gotta go. Commercial audition." She said, grabbing her purse and circling the desk. "It's a national."

He cursed silently to himself as he watched her cross the office. He wouldn't have called that a pleasant conversation exactly, but it was at least heading back into friendship territory. "Good luck." He croaked out, hoping that she'd do well at her audition and return to the office in a good mood. It might increase his chances of not only finishing this conversation, but perhaps, taking it to a new level.

As she opened the door to the lobby, she lurched back and gave a small yelp. A tall, demon with a poor complexion and enormous ears had been about to knock on the door. He cried out as well, which took her aback. "Hey, look where you're going, buddy!" She scolded, poking the demon guy in the chest. "This is a doorway. People walk both in and out."

Doyle winced at her treatment of a probable client, but figured it wasn't going to make much of a difference at this point. The big-eared demon seemed unbothered by her rudeness, stepping out of her way so she could exit. "It's Barney, actually. Not Buddy."

She rolled her eyes at him impatiently and stepped out into the hallway.

"Break a leg!" He said cheerily to her retreating form. She stopped, tossing a perplexed look over her shoulder, but didn't let it stop her from continuing toward the elevator. Once she was gone, Barney turned toward Doyle who had stood up from the couch and wandered closer to greet this odd character now occupying their doorway.

"Can I help ya?" Doyle asked.

"Uh… yeah, this is Angel Investigations, right?" Barney asked uncertainly. "Would that make you Angel?"

"No, that would make me Doyle." Doyle replied, holding out a hand for the demon to shake. "I'm an associate of Angel's. What can I do for ya?"

"Oh, great… yeah, listen, if you need a minute to go after your girlfriend, I understand. Seems like things were left a little unresolved there." He made a face as he yanked on the edge of his collar. "Woo! The tension in here is kind of stifling."

Doyle tilted his head at the demon across from him. He clearly wasn't psychic if he hadn't known that Doyle was not Angel. "Empath?" Doyle inquired.

"That's right." Barney announced with a satisfied grin. "You're perceptive. That's a good sign. You must be a pretty good detective."

"Yeah, well, I've known some empath demons in my time. You're lousy cheats at cards." Doyle grumbled.

"Not all of us." Barney replied earnestly. "But, alright… Maybe I have been known to use it to my advantage from time to time. I choose to think of it as going with my strengths. Can't blame a guy for that, right?"

Doyle frowned, clearly disagreeing on that front. He'd never been ripped off by this particular empath demon, but he'd known enough of them not to trust the guy. Something their new client was surely picking up on as he retreated one step back toward the front door.

"Doyle. We have a client?"

It was Angel's voice from over Doyle's shoulder. Just in time to keep their new client from fleeing.

Barney looked nervously from Angel back to Doyle, and then cast an even more nervous glance over his shoulder. "Um… so, you're you him, right? The vampire with a soul?"

* * *

Doyle leaned against the wooden cabinet behind Angel's desk. He and Angel had listened to Barney's tale of woe. Some guy was stalking him or some such. Angel seemed to be taking a serious interest in the case, while Doyle had some _serious_ reservations. Of all the empath demons he had ever known, there was only one he'd ever willingly seek out—the host of Caritas. That guy was good people; he used his powers to help others, not scam them. This guy, however… well, he was definitely hiding something. Despite his feelings on the matter, Doyle was able to keep his emotions in check so as not to send the guy running again. He'd bluffed an empath demon once before, and was awfully proud of that fact. Earned him quite a bit of money, in fact… not to mention a dislocated shoulder.

"Any ideas what it could be?" Angel asked, swiveling his chair around to face Doyle.

Doyle looked blankly at his boss, having missed the latter portion of the conversation and therefore, wasn't entirely sure how to answer the question now posed to him. Thankfully, he didn't have to.

And "thankfully" was never a word he normally used when describing a vision. Which is precisely what he got at that moment.

As his eyeballs tried their damnedest to squeeze themselves out of their sockets, he felt Angel's firm grasp on his forearms, keeping him from slumping to the ground. He vaguely heard Barney shriek in the background, probably taken by surprise by the sudden onslaught of physical pain that was now emanating from Doyle. As the vision subsided, Angel led Doyle to his own chair, allowing him to slump into it. Angel opened his top desk drawer, which, like Cordelia's, contained both a bottle of aspirin and a flask of whiskey. Doyle gratefully grabbed for both, medicating first, before attempting to speak. Angel knew better than to even ask what he'd seen in the vision before Doyle had washed his aspirin down with the alcohol.

"What was that?!" Barney cried, rubbing his own head in a shared agony.

"That, was my gift." Doyle gritted out sarcastically, removing the flask from his lips and looking up at Angel. "And a lousy one at that. Vague city, man. All I could make out was a sculpture—abstract kinda thing. Looked a bit familiar, but I can't place it."

"That's all you saw?" Angel asked, scratching his head. "No address. No clue as to who's in danger?"

"I'd say the sculpture is the clue." Doyle replied, twisting the cap of the flask back into place and tossing it back into Angel's desk drawer. "Good news is I got the sense it's not something happening right now. We should have time to look into Barney's little problem first."

"It's more than a little problem." Barney piped up. "It's a big, BIG problem. As in, a big scary guy that's chasing me!"

* * *

The front door to the office slammed in the background, and a very agitated Cordelia appeared in the doorway of Angel's office. "Well, that _blew_!" She huffed. "Or, should I say, I blew _it_. As in, my extremely important audition. For a national, no less! All because I had way too much stuff on my mind to concentrate properly." Her cutting gaze landed decidedly on Doyle as she delivered that line. She threw her hands up in the air dramatically. "Ugh! They're never going to call me back now. Goodbye, superstardom. Hello, food stamps."

Cordelia didn't seem to notice or care that three very bemused pairs of eyes were focused on her during her little outburst. Nor did she seem to find it at all unusual that Doyle was seated in Angel's desk chair looking like death warmed over. She placed her hands on her hips and looked at each one of them individually before pointing to Barney. "This guy's a client?"

Angel recovered first, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. "Uh… Cordelia, this is Barney. He's being stalked by… something. Doyle and I need to go do some reconnaissance work. Would you mind taking Barney downstairs and making him comfortable?"

She wrinkled her nose at Barney, "Not an evil demon, right?"

Barney stood proudly, a grin spreading wide across his face. "No, ma'am. Not evil at all."

She rolled her eyes and headed toward the elevator. "Whatever." She replied, gesturing for Barney to follow her.

After they disappeared down the elevator shaft, Doyle lifted himself gingerly from Angel's desk chair. " _Not an evil demon, right?_ " He repeated mockingly. "It's like she's trying to gut me, man. Remindin' me exactly what she thinks of my species."

Angel sighed, waiting near the doorway as Doyle slowly made his way around the desk, rubbing at his temple. "She didn't mean it like that." Angel countered. "You know _she knows_ not all demons are evil."

"So, that was just for my benefit, yeah?" Doyle guessed, meeting Angel in the doorway and continuing toward the outer office door. He sighed heavily, lamenting the regression in his relationship with Cordelia. "It's taking her a lot longer than usual to get over our little spat from the other day."

"Sounded like more than a little spat to me." Angel mumbled in reply.

"Ah… that's real nice man. Now you're takin' her side." Doyle complained.

"I'm not taking anyone's side." Angel said, stopping in his tracks to turn toward his friend. He placed a comforting hand on Doyle's shoulder. "I'm just saying, you two haven't been arguing the same way you used to. They're not meaningless spats. Not to her, and not to you either."

Doyle kicked at an empty space on the floor, not meeting Angel's eyes. "Yeah, so. What's your point?"

"You know how Cordelia is. You understand her better than I ever have, that's for sure." Angel said. "So, don't let her hostility get to you. Do what you've always done and I'm sure things will go back to normal."

"Well, I was hoping for better than normal, but now normal is sounding pretty good." Doyle sulked. "I dunno, man. I think I might've really blown things with her. I was getting somewhere before, but now… I'm pretty sure she can't stand the sight of me."

"There's only one other person I can recall her having that kind of reaction to..." Angel replied thoughtfully.

"You're about to tell me it was an ex-boyfriend, yeah?" Doyle groaned. Angel's silence was enough to confirm the fact. "Well, that's just wonderful. I've made it to the hated ex category without ever having dated her. Must be some kinda record."

"Maybe so." Angel said matter-of-factly. "But, I think you know it's not hate. It's hurt." With that, he let go of Doyle's shoulder and proceeded to the front door. Doyle absorbed Angel's words.

"Hey… since when did ya get to be such an expert on Cordy?" Doyle wondered, following his friend out to the lobby.

"Since _you_ won't shut up about her." Angel retorted. "I've learned more about Cordelia Chase in the last few months than I did in three years in Sunnydale."

"Is that right?" Doyle asked, tilting his head appreciatively at that statement. "Ya sayin' no one gets her quite like I do?"

"Not all of us are masochists, Doyle." Angel remarked with a smirk, hitting the elevator button.

"Ah… but you are." Doyle replied with a grin, following Angel into the elevator as it arrived. He furrowed his brow, thinking about what he'd just said, and turning back to Angel. "So, don't get any ideas, yeah? I've got dibs."


	4. Parting Gifts, Pt 2

**"Parting Gifts," Part II**

Doyle finished picking the lock on Barney's front door and pushed the door open. "Dunno why the guy didn't just give us the key. We're supposed to be on his side." Doyle griped, stepping into the sparse space.

"Maybe it's because he can sense that you don't like him?" Angel guessed, giving Doyle a critical look.

"So what if I don't?" Doyle replied. "I'm still willing to pull my weight and—" Doyle's voice dropped off and his eyes narrowed at the leather-clad figure now occupying the open doorway behind them, aiming a crossbow directly at Angel's chest.

"Hello, Angel." The crossbow guy said snidely, revealing that he had an English accent.

Angel turned toward the Englishman, placing his hands in his pockets in casual regard. Clearly, he was neither concerned about the crossbow nor the man wielding it. "Wesley." He said in greeting.

"I wager you never thought you'd never see me again." The man called Wesley said, his demeanor was overly showy, hinting that his bravado was probably of the false variety. Doyle wondered how fast the guy would cower if Angel bared his fangs.

"To tell you the truth, I hadn't given it much thought one way or the other." Angel responded, still not bothering to remove his hands from his pockets.

"Who's this yutz?" Doyle asked, sizing up the tall, lanky English fellow, and deciding he liked him even less than the empath waiting for them back at the office.

"I beg your pardon?" Wesley sputtered, dipping the crossbow slightly. "I'll have you know, I am a world-class rogue demon hunter! And I'm on the trail of a particularly nasty bugger at the moment."

"This is Wesley Wyndham-Pryce." Angel deadpanned, finally reaching out and plucking the crossbow out of Wesley's hand, leaving the other man blinking in surprised confusion that he was now weaponless. "He was Buffy's Watcher for a short time." Angel turned back toward Wesley. "But, I'm guessing they fired you."

"Hardly." Wesley huffed. "With Buffy unwilling to follow Council orders there was simply no opportunity to function as Watcher. Hence, my new calling as a—"

"Rogue demon hunter. Yeah, we got it the first time." Angel replied, tossing the crossbow to Doyle, who caught it with ease. "Why are you stalking Barney?"

"If you're referring to the large, incredibly violent demon I've been tracking across the country, well, then 'Barney' is going to have to answer to me for the trail of corpses he's left mutilated in his wake." Wesley vowed—again, all bravado with nothing to back it up. Not even a crossbow.

Doyle snorted. "Trail of mutilated corpses, ya say? _That_ guy?" He shook his head, slinging the crossbow over his shoulder. "If ya told me he cheated ya in a round of Black Jack I'd say ya were onto something, but murderer? Doesn't seem the type."

"I don't think I caught your name." Wesley said, eyes falling on Doyle, sizing him up derisively.

"That's 'cause I never gave it." Doyle shot back with undisguised contempt.

Angel rubbed his brow, already exhausted from all the bickering. "Doyle." Angel supplied, giving Doyle a sharp look. "Can we focus on the important thing here. For starters…" He turned back toward Wesley. "I think you've got the wrong guy."

"On the contrary." Wesley said, eyes suddenly darting to the ceiling overhead, where a large, yellow-green demon hung. "I'm quite certain I've found the right guy."

The demon lunged at that moment, landing on Wesley and then flinging him easily out of the way. Angel stepped into the fray next, trading blows with the large demon, before being knocked to his knees. As soon as Angel went down, Doyle fired the crossbow he'd inherited from Wesley, hitting the demon squarely in the chest. The thing yelped, and fled quickly, hurling itself out a nearby window and landing on the street below.

"Okay, now _that guy_ looked way more like the mutilated corpse type."

* * *

Cordelia sat at Angel's kitchen table filing her nails, which were basically already perfect from all the time she spent filing them at the front desk. But, she didn't have much else to do down in Angel's apartment aside from trying not to look at the demon who was currently pacing the living room area. He wasn't hideously disfigured or anything, but he could probably benefit from a good dermatologist. As demons went, he was definitely no Doyle.

Aaand, there she went again. Thinking about Doyle, no matter how hard she tried to think of anything _other_ _than_ Doyle. His face kept popping into her mind, with its lively green eyes and disarmingly charming dimples—along with it came a jumble of emotions she still wasn't ready to process completely.

"I'm sure everything will work out just fine." Barney said, interrupting her deep thoughts.

"I'm sure you're right." Cordelia replied, not incredibly happy to be reminded about her babysitting duty. "That's what Angel does. Always saves the day."

"Oh, not that." Barney clarified, coming closer to her and leaning against one of the unoccupied kitchen chairs. "I mean, yeah, I hope that'll work out, too, for my sake. But, I was referring to things between you and your boyfriend."

"Excuse me?!" Cordelia chirped, her head rocketing up from her task. "My what now?"

"The guy from earlier. Uh... Doyle." Barney said a little more hesitantly than before. "I picked up on some stuff when I met you this morning, so I can only assume the regret and the yearning I'm getting now... well, that's about him, right?"

Cordelia's eyes widened to their full capacity and she felt her face flush with both embarrassment and fury at the thought of her personal thoughts being invaded. "You can stop right there, buddy—"

"Barney." He reminded her.

"What's your deal, anyway?" She demanded, narrowing her eyes at him. "Have you been listening to what I've been thinking this whole time, you floppy-eared freak?!"

"I'm not psychic." Barney assured her. "I'm empathic. I don't know what you're thinking, but I can feel your feelings as you feel them."

"Well, stop!" She ordered, deciding that was probably a whole lot worse than simply being psychic. "Keep your feelings out of my feelings. Some things are personal, besides you don't seem to be feeling things right. I'm not yearning. I don't _yearn_."

Barney nodded vaguely in response, but didn't look too convinced that he'd gotten anything wrong. That was even more infuriating than knowing he'd been eavesdropping on her feelings in the first place—that he seemed to understand them far better than she did. She was about to elaborate in more detail exactly where he could stick his empathic abilities, when he whirled toward the figures appearing at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes went wide with fear. "That's him! That's the guy who's after me!"

Cordelia turned to see Angel and Doyle entering the room with a third person. "Wesley?"

"Doyle can help you with the books." Angel instructed Wesley as he crossed the room and slung a comforting arm around Barney's shoulders. "Listen. There's been a bit of a misunderstanding. It's actually kind of a funny story..." As Angel and Barney stepped out of earshot, Cordelia stepped closer to greet the Watcher she hadn't seen since her high school graduation.

"Cordelia!" Wesley exclaimed happily, upon seeing her. "How lovely to see you. Angel didn't mention that you were working with him."

"I see you two already know each other." Doyle muttered, plopping a heavy book that he'd retrieved from the bookcase into Wesley's unprepared arms. Wesley grunted with the impact, but recovered enough to keep the book from crashing to the floor. "The rest of the books are right over there." Doyle finished, pointing toward Angel's extensive collection, while darting his disapproving eyes between Wesley and Cordelia.

Cordelia could plainly see that Wesley had already managed to get under Doyle's skin during their brief acquaintance, and although she wasn't entirely sure why, it made the corners of her mouth quirk into the beginnings of a smile. She suspected Doyle was jealous, or in the very least suspicious—wondering how well she and Wesley knew each other. She could test the theory quite easily...

Before had thought things through, she moved closer to Wesley and threw her arms around him and the big, dusty book Doyle had saddled him with. "It's so good to see you!" She enthused, not entirely lying. It was good to see him, just maybe not quite _this_ good.

As she stepped back to see Doyle's brow crease and eyes narrow, her smile became a little wider and a little less genuine. "When's the last time I saw you?" She asked Wesley, affecting an air of cluelessness. "Was it prom night?" She turned her gaze to Doyle, offering an explanation. "He was my date."

Doyle quirked a brow at that, but said nothing, his features set in a hard line of obvious disapproval. Wesley looked a little flustered by her sudden enthusiasm, but was oblivious to the fact that it wasn't for his benefit. "Well, we did see each other at your graduation, as you may recall." He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to remind her of their disastrous kiss, without actually reminding her of precisely how disastrous a kiss it was.

"Right, right. Now I remember." Cordelia interrupted him dismissively, not actually wanting to relive that moment, nor give Doyle any actual details about what happened. She could tell by the look on Doyle's face that she'd already scored herself some major jealousy points; no need to push it too far. "Need help with the research?" She asked brightly.

"Why, yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you." Wesley answered, allowing her to take him by the elbow and lead him toward the bookcase.

Doyle was glaring at Wesley as if the Englishman had borrowed Doyle's favorite leather jacket without permission, but as Cordelia ushered Wesley closer to the books and tossed another glance in Doyle's direction, she noticed that his sharp glare dropped into a more sullen expression. His shoulders drooped and he looked... well, defeated. Cordelia's stomach lurched. She wasn't entirely sure why she had felt it necessary to make him jealous. She didn't actually want to hurt him. But, for some reason, she kept doing it anyway. Over and over. One way or another.

As she sat beside Wesley, flipping through demonology index after demonology index, her thoughts, as before, were solely focused on Doyle.

* * *

"Not so into the research anymore, are ya, darlin'?" Doyle asked with a hint of bitterness in his voice. Cordelia was pacing anxiously, like a caged tiger. Maybe she was worried about her precious Wesley.

Angel and Wesley had identified the demon they had encountered as a Kungai and they had fairly good reason to believe it would end up in Koreatown. Angel had ordered Doyle to grab a few weapons and follow behind as he confronted the thing, but Doyle had no intention of leaving Wesley behind with Cordelia—at least not while Doyle wasn't there to keep the guy in line with his constant death glares. So, instead, Doyle suggested that Angel take the incompetent, leather-clad demon hunter along as his back up and leave Doyle to research the sculpture from his vision earlier that day. Angel hadn't seemed thrilled by the prospect, but agreed, albeit reluctantly.

Doyle had to hope that Wesley wouldn't do something stupid like get himself killed, or worse, get Angel killed. Then Doyle would have to live with the regret of knowing his pettiness and jealousy had cost a life. On the other hand, he had complete confidence in Angel's ability to deal with the injured Kungai, and Wesley, well… he had been doing his own thing for a while now. As incompetent as he appeared, he must have some skill that had been keeping him alive thus far. Either that or he had a lot of luck on his side. Either way, Doyle's plan hadn't been entirely selfish—he really did need to figure out what the hell he'd seen in his last vision, or else someone in danger wasn't going to be getting any help from Angel Investigations.

Cordelia froze in place at Doyle's comment, turning her head to look at him in annoyance. "I can't help you find some sculpture I've never even seen. I'm not a mind reader." She argued. "And 'grey blob that resembles a nude female' isn't much to go on. Ninety percent of the art in those books contains nude females. Let's be honest, some artists aren't even that good, they probably just wanted an excuse to get a hottie out of her clothes." She said shaking her head in frustration. "Sounds like something you would do. Speaking of… I'm really glad I _can't_ read your mind, Doyle, because I'm sure I'd be scarred for life."

She clamped her mouth shut suddenly, directing her gaze toward Barney who had been sitting quietly on the couch nearby doing a crossword puzzle that Doyle had tossed at him. He looked up and gave her a little smile that she did not return. Instead, her face twisted into something resembling a grimace.

Doyle had to chuckle, despite himself. "Ah…or ya might find ya rather enjoy it. After all, in my mind, you're royalty." He turned back to the art book in front of him and flipped through a few more pages as she went back to her pacing. "Y'know, I've never thought of pretending to be an artist. I'll have to keep that one in mind."

"Do you have any demon powers?" She asked abruptly, causing Doyle to sit up straight, nearly knocking the book off his lap.

"Huh?" He asked, giving her a baffled expression. "Demon powers?"

"Like him." She clarified, pointing at Barney and then wringing her hands together nervously. "He has this emotional radar thingie and he's been using it on me all day, which is totally _rude_ , by the way." She stared daggers into Barney before turning back toward Doyle, her eyes loaded with questions. "You would've told me if you could do something like that, right?"

Doyle observed Barney sitting silently across from him, chewing on the end of his pencil. He gave Doyle a little apologetic shrug. Suddenly Cordelia's nervous behavior made a lot more sense. If there was anyone who didn't want someone reading her true emotions, it was Cordelia. "I'm not an empath, Cordy. If that's what you're askin'." Doyle reassured her, trying to keep his voice calm, even as his emotions churned within. She was still looking at him expectantly, so he felt like he needed to elaborate. "I'm half-Brachen. A bit stronger, faster and more agile than a human. Heightened senses, too—that's how I found the Ring of Amara in the sewer that time. I waited 'til ya turned around and morphed into my other face, so I could use the demon. When I'm sittin' here like this, I'm just your run-of-the-mill human guy."

"A Brachen." Barney piped in approvingly. "With the spikes? Pretty good-looking demons, if I do say so myself."

Doyle frowned in Barney's direction, wondering who told him he could speak. "She'll take your word for it, bud."

"They don't all get visions, though." Barney continued curiously, despite Doyle's death glare.

"No, I'm special like that." Doyle retorted, pointing toward the crossword puzzle in the empath's lap. Barney got the message, hastily scribbling letters into some of the empty boxes.

Doyle focused his eyes back on Cordelia, to see how she was absorbing the mental imagery of his demon self. He watched her exhale deeply, probably relieved to know that he hadn't been secretly reading her thoughts and feelings since he met her. Which wasn't to say he hadn't been trying to do exactly that. Even though Angel insisted that Doyle could read her better than most people, he still felt like a blind man feeling around in the dark when it came to predicting what she'd do next.

He braced himself, waiting to see if she would ask any more demon-related questions. He was already dreading the day she asked to see his demon face, which he assumed was coming soon. He hoped she'd have enough sense not to do it in front of a stranger. Just talking about this in front of Barney was bad enough.

"Good." Cordelia replied quietly, looking like she wanted to say more, but keeping whatever it was to herself. She was about to continue her pacing.

"Maybe ya could help me, after all." He asked pleadingly, gesturing to one of the art books on the coffee table and patting the seat beside him. "Just show me anything that looks remotely like what I described, yeah? It'll go quicker that way."

She seemed to be debating with herself, before slowly and reluctantly moving toward the empty seat beside him. As she sat down, he could tell she was sitting awkwardly, keeping her body tense and farther away from him than could be considered natural. He tried not to let it bother him, as she leaned forward, grabbing an art book and started flipping pages.

They sat in silence turning pages while Barney worked on his word puzzle across the way. Doyle could feel Cordelia's body heat beside him, even though she was leaning away from him. This was the closest they'd been in days and he couldn't ignore the fact that his pulse had quickened in reaction to her nearness. He wished he could make Barney evaporate so the two of them could be alone. Maybe then he could actually talk to her and clear the air properly.

"You're stronger?" She whispered. "Like Angel."

He wasn't sure why she was whispering. Barney was still close enough to hear them, and even if he wasn't, Doyle's demon strength wasn't anything they needed to be secretive about. It was, perhaps, the least offensive aspect of the whole thing. "Not as strong as Angel." Doyle replied. "But stronger than a human."

He watched her processing something; she reminded him of a coiled snake, waiting until you least expected to…

"Why don't you use it when you fight?!" She huffed in an exaggerated stage whisper. "Please tell me it's because of your daddy issues and not because of me?"

"Heeeey." Doyle responded as he processed her callous dig. He didn't bother keeping his voice down as it was entirely pointless to do so.

"I'm serious, Doyle." She replied, now raising her voice back to her regular speaking level. "Lying about having a wife and being a demon is one thing, but nearly getting yourself killed just to keep it from me…"

"It's not about you." Doyle snapped at her. "And for the record, I never lied about anything. I just hadn't gotten 'round to tellin' ya the whole truth, that's all. It's not like ya sat down and told me your whole life story."

"I don't have any big secrets! I was rich and now I'm not. The end!" She shouted, and then paused and held up a hand to silence him before he could say anything else in reply. "I don't think we should talk about this right now." She said curtly, giving a very unsubtle nod in Barney's direction. "Not when Mr. Big Ears, is over there, eavesdropping on our feelings."

"That would imply ya actually have feelings for him to read." Doyle mumbled under his breath.

"Nice, Doyle." Cordelia bit back, folding her arms across her chest. "Real nice. There you go insulting me again. How do you expect me to forgive you if you keep rubbing it in?"

"Well, if ya think about it. I never actually insulted ya in the first place." He kept his voice saccharine in nature, a little too sweet to be genuine. "I was just pointin' out how often you insult me. And, anyway, didn't you already say it was 'fine' and all that? Now who's _lying,_ Little Miss Honesty?"

"It _is_ fine." She retorted, tossing him a big phony smile.

Barney had been watching them in rapt fascination, turning his head from one to the other like it was a tennis match. Finally, he raised his hand as if he was a student in a classroom, waiting to be called on. The two sets of eyes that had been throwing heated looks at each other, turned toward him instead, causing him to sit back into the cushions as if he'd been burnt.

"Uh… Now I understand why your friend Angel doesn't own a TV. Who needs one with all the daytime soap opera drama going on right here?" Barney gave them an uncertain grin, still looking from one to the other. "I'll have you both know, I happen to be a terrific couples counselor and it's obvious you two could use the help. It'd be free of charge, of course."

Cordelia's eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets; she looked like she was ready to pounce. "We..." She said, gesturing between she and Doyle. "…are _so_ not a couple. No counseling needed, feelings-boy. Free or otherwise!"

Doyle rubbed at the bridge of his nose wishing he could have put a muzzle on this Barney guy. He reached over to touch Cordelia's shoulder, his thumb brushing against flesh through the oddly cut slits in her shirt sleeves. His intention was to comfort her, give her support, but he might as well have scalded her with a branding iron, judging by the way she leapt off the couch. His heart twisted in his chest involuntary at her reaction. He tried not to jump to the worst possible conclusion about what a reaction like that could mean, but it didn't exactly leave a lot to the imagination.

 _She didn't even want him to touch her._

"Coffee!" She exclaimed in an unnaturally high-pitched voice. "Who wants coffee? I know, I do." She wandered off to the kitchen, talking to herself about all the very intense feelings she apparently had about coffee.

Doyle sighed heavily, pointing a warning finger in Barney's direction. "Do me a favor, bud. Be sure to keep that empathy to yourself from now on."


	5. Parting Gifts, Pt 3

**"Parting Gifts," Part III**

Cordelia busied herself with her coffee-making distraction, focusing as hard as she could on coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee. No other feelings here! Just the deliciousness of coffee beans and coffee grounds and the delicious liquid it could create… well, delicious when other people made it. She wasn't all that fond of the bitter stuff she usually made, but Doyle seemed to like it just fine. He was always drinking it even when no one else would go near the stuff.

She tossed a glance over her shoulder to see Barney get off the couch and punch some numbers into a cellular phone he'd produced from his pocket. Doyle was still sitting behind the mound of art books, slowly turning pages and not looking like he'd had epiphanies as of yet. She swallowed hard as she watched him. She would have to keep her distance from Doyle while Barney was present. Doyle caused her to feel _too much,_ and that was an uncomfortable thing with an empath lurking around to feel everything. Talking to Doyle about his demon traits had been a mistake; sitting next to him had been an even bigger one. And, oh God, when he'd touched her, she couldn't get away quick enough—although, she suspected the damage had been done. Barney could feel how Doyle made her feel. The electricity and desire and everything else that came with his very brief, accidental skin-to-skin contact.

It was so embarrassing! But at least he wouldn't tell Doyle… or, at least, she hoped he wouldn't tell Doyle. From what she could infer, Doyle didn't seem to like the guy very much and hadn't bothered with much conversation as a result. Instead, he'd treated their client like a child they were stuck babysitting—giving him word puzzles to keep him occupied… and quiet. With any luck it would stay that way until Angel and Wesley returned.

She hadn't realized how long her gaze had lingered in Doyle's direction, until Barney startled her out of her reverie, coming up beside her. She jumped slightly, nearly spilling the coffee she had just poured.

"That for me?" Barney asked, flashing her that goofy grin that seemed to be permanently plastered on his face. She couldn't tell if it made her trust him more, or less.

"Sure." She answered, shoving the mug in his direction and turning back to the cabinet to find another one for herself.

"I can tell you what he's feeling, if you want." Barney offered lowering his voice so Doyle wouldn't overhear. He took a sip from the mug and coughed a bit. "Whew… strong stuff."

"No, thanks." Cordelia replied, doing her best to ignore the annoying demon beside her. As much as she wanted to know what Doyle was thinking, she would prefer not to find out this way.

"You wouldn't like what I'd have to say, anyway. Better not to even bring it up." Barney leaned against the counter beside her, studying the contents of his cup.

"I wouldn't?" She asked, chewing her lower lip apprehensively. She finished pouring her own cup holding it with two hands.

"No, you wouldn't." Barney commented. "Which is why I'm not going to meddle."

She nodded absently. "He's mad at me, right? I don't need an empath to help me figure that out."

"I wouldn't say he's mad exactly." Barney hedged.

"He's not?" Cordelia took the bait, reacting with surprise. "Well… insulted, then? Is that what you'd say?"

Barney tilted his head sympathetically, "See, that's the thing. I know how you feel about the guy, so I hate to be the one to break it to you. He's fed up with this game you've been playing. He doesn't want you the same way you want him—not anymore."

Something cracked deep inside her, and she was more than a little certain it was her heart. That was the last thing she'd expected to hear. She searched for her voice, which appeared to have deserted her. "Why not?"

"Why do you think? Because you're a frigid bitch with nothing but ice running through your veins." Barney said it matter-of-factly, which made it that much worse. Her hands shook so badly that she was forced to place the mug back down on the counter. She choked out something that wasn't a word this time. There were no words.

"He wants someone who's capable of love and warmth, someone who can open up; someone more like his ex-wife…"

Cordelia's blood rushed so fast through her ears that she couldn't hear Barney droning on, even though she was positive he was still going. It didn't matter, because she didn't need to hear anything else. All of it was true. She had been so afraid to let Doyle get too close; she had kept pushing him away until he no longer wanted to get close. Worse than that—she'd been downright awful to him. He'd probably end up back in his ex-wife's arms and she'd have no one to blame but herself.

A sob escaped from her throat as she found herself racing blindly for the elevator. She couldn't see straight through the blur of tears that were so foreign to her eyes. Which is why she was terribly shocked to run headlong into Doyle, who had dropped his book, dove into her path and caught her by the forearms. "Cordy! What's wrong?!"

She kept her teary eyes glued to the floor. She couldn't look at him. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

"Leave me alone!" She cried, using strength she didn't know she had to wrench herself away from him. Thankfully, he didn't pursue her any further, allowing her to escape to the elevator and ascend to safety.

Doyle watched in stunned silence as a nearly-hysterical Cordelia fled from Angel's apartment. It only took him a moment to collect himself, and stalk toward the demon casually sipping coffee in the kitchen. Doyle clenched his fists, more than willing to pummel the guy if necessary.

"Didn't I warn you, bud?" Doyle growled. "What did ya say to her?!"

"I was just asking about her acting career." Barney said with a shrug, moving to take a sip of his coffee and then thinking better of it. "Guess it was a sore subject."

Doyle observed Barney doubtfully, not believing a word of it. "I think ya were doin' exactly what I told ya not to. Sticking your empathy where it doesn't belong, yeah?"

Barney placed the undrinkable coffee on the counter beside the mug Cordelia had previously abandoned. "It doesn't come with an on-off switch. It's not like I do it on purpose." He contended.

"Your mouth comes with an on-off switch." Doyle pointed out. "Ya shoulda kept it shut."

Barney raised his hands in surrender. "Well, I should probably tell you what she's feeling—"

"No, you shouldn't." Doyle cut him off quickly. Sure, it was tempting, but it was also none of his business. "If I'm ever going to hear about those feelings of hers, I'm gonna get 'em straight from the source. When she's ready, not when some empath with a big mouth comes along."

"Don't hold your breath." Barney muttered.

Doyle felt the involuntary flinch in his facial muscles in response to Barney's muted comment, but he said nothing to encourage him further.

"She's never going to let you in." Barney added, despite Doyle's feigned lack of interest. Doyle knew Barney could tell otherwise, and was clearly using it to his advantage. "It's not because there's anything wrong with her—as I just proved, the emotions in that girl are all dammed up, just waiting to pour out."

"I know." Doyle replied through clenched teeth, turning his back and moving away from Barney, hoping that would give him the hint to stop talking. But, Barney followed at Doyle's heels like an annoying little yapping dog. If only Doyle had a muzzle. "The problem is you."

Doyle felt the words hit him like a physical blow. And Barney took his emotional reaction as further invitation.

"Oh yeah, the girl likes attention and she's always known you were interested. Made her feel good, when she thought you were a man. But, now that she knows you're something _else_ —"

"Stop!" Doyle roared, whirling back on Barney. He felt like his heart would stop beating in his chest at any minute. Either that or he'd make sure this guy's heart stopped beating in his chest—anything to make the words stop.

Barney's sympathetic face did nothing to soften the blows of his next words. "Hey, you don't need me to tell you. You saw it for yourself—the way she flinched when you touched her. _You disgust her_. She could barely stand to be in the same room with you."

"That's enough." Doyle spat back. Barney had confirmed every single fear Doyle had about Cordelia. Every single fear he had about his demon heritage. And that's how he knew it was all a sham. "Ya screwed up, Barney. Ya took it too far. You're not telling me about Cordelia's feelings, you're telling me about my own."

Barney's mask of sympathy lifted, and his grin became something much more malevolent in nature. "Caught me." He admitted with a shrug.

"Cheap shot." Doyle snarled.

"Not as cheap as this one." Barney replied, pulling a Taser out of his pocket and jolting Doyle into oblivion.

* * *

"Doyle! Cordelia!" Angel wasn't sure why he was shouting for them, he already knew they weren't there. He could sense that the apartment was empty, but it didn't stop him from checking every room. Wesley stood awkwardly in the entryway, not helping with Angel's urgent search.

The Kungai had died, but not before revealing that it wasn't chasing after Barney. Barney had been chasing after _it_. And he was very likely after Doyle next. An objective he seemed to have accomplished, with an added bonus in the way of Cordelia.

"In case you're wondering, this is me looking for a clue. Feel free to join in any time you want." Angel barked in Wesley's direction. He'd had to listen to the former Watcher berate himself the entire way back to the office, finally admitting that yes, he had been fired from the Council after the fiasco with Faith. As if that was a surprise. At the moment, Angel cared little for Wesley's pity party. Doyle and Cordelia were in trouble, and Angel would stop at nothing to save them.

Wesley had finally moved to help, lifting several art books off the floor. He opened one that had a post-it stuck inside. "Angel, is this of any significance to you?" He asked, carrying the book to Angel, opened to the marked page.

"Maiden With Urn by Van Gieson." Angel said, easily identifying the sculpture on the page Wesley held open. "This must be the sculpture Doyle saw in his vision. It could be telling us where Barney took them."

"I understand that your friend Doyle is a seer, but what about Cordelia?" Wesley asked worriedly. "Why would he take her as well? She has no special powers that I'm aware of."

"Collateral damage." Angel said regretfully, headed back upstairs.

Wesley followed as Angel stalked through his own office toward Cordelia's desk in the front. Just as he was crossing the threshold between the two offices, the front door opened.

"Cordelia!" Angel said with surprise, rushing to her side. He could see that she looked troubled, as if she'd been crying. Something he couldn't recall her ever having done before—at least, not when he had been there to see it. "Are you okay? What happened? Where's Doyle?"

Cordelia brushed passed him dismissively on the way toward her desk. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about it. Just _please_ tell me you killed that kangaroo demon and sent emo-Yoda on his merry way."

Angel was confused. Had he jumped to the wrong conclusion? He exchanged a uneasy glance with Wesley, who stood silently on the other side of the threshold. "Doyle's not with you, is he?"

"Unless he has invisibility powers he forgot to tell me about, I'm thinking not." She snapped, plopping into her chair.

Angel approached her slowly, keeping his voice even, despite the panic rising inside. "Cordelia… he's not downstairs. We think he's in trouble." Angel swallowed hard as she looked up at him, still not getting it. He searched for a relatively delicate way to explain things, while still getting across the fact that this was an urgent matter. "We found out that Barney's been stealing demon parts across the country and now Doyle's missing…"

Apparently, that did the trick.

"Oh my God!" She shrieked, popping back up out of her seat. "It's all my fault! Mr. Nosey-feelings said all these horrible things and I got upset and I… I just left. I left Doyle all alone and now he's at some demon-chop-shop about to be dismantled!"

"Cordelia. It's not your fault. This is what Barney does. He must've wanted to get rid of you so he could take Doyle." Angel explained.

"What part do you think they'd wanna chop?" She asked worriedly.

"A seers eyes would most likely fetch a nice price." Wesley answered without hesitation, and then blanched as he realized what he had said.

Cordelia's brought her hands up to her chest as if she'd been struck. "They wanna steal his eyes?!" She screeched, turning from Wesley back to Angel. "They can't do that. I like Doyle's eyes where they are!"

"We're gonna find him and stop that from happening, but first, we need to locate the sculpture from his vision. It's our only lead. Think you can do that?" Angel asked patting the top of the computer monitor.

She nodded, once again taking her seat. She poised her shaky fingers over the keyboard, hoping that her terrible typing skills wouldn't be the difference between finding Doyle intact, finding him eyeless or worse...

She let out a long exhale trying to focus. "Okay. Tell me what I'm looking for?"


	6. Parting Gifts, Pt 4

**"Parting Gifts," Part IV**

BLAM!

Doyle's vision blurred as a fist connected with his cheekbone for the umpteenth time that day. He'd gotten really tired of being manhandled by Barney and his lame-brain associates. To add insult to injury, he'd only sold for $20,000. If only he could have chewed threw his gag, he would've given those bidders a piece of his mind. He was worth double that, easily. Now the uptight lawyer-type who'd won the bid was haggling over the extraction price. Lovely. He was about to lose his eyes and these yo-yos were quibbling over an extra thousand dollars.

Unfortunately, for Doyle the quibbling had ended and the extracting was about to begin.

"Now, hold still." Barney said callously, holding a crude looking metal device inches away from Doyle's waiting eye socket. "This is only gonna hurt _a lot_."

At that moment, a body came hurdling through the front door to the storage room, landing in a heap. And, mercifully, following the flying body was Doyle's hero… er, heroes. Three of them, in fact. Angel led the charge, but Cordelia and her fuddy-duddy prom date were there as well. And they all looked like they meant business.

Barney turned away from Doyle, taking the horrifying device with him, and Doyle was finally able to breathe again. After that, everything was a chaotic jumble of limbs colliding and people crashing. Doyle could see that Angel was doing pretty well, as expected… despite Wesley's failed attempts to do much more than fall over himself. It was Cordelia who deftly navigated the tumbling bodies to be at Doyle's side.

"Doyle!" She exclaimed, crouching down beside him and reaching out to untie his wrists, which were badly rope-burned due to his efforts to loosen them. "Are you okay?" She asked as she worked at the knot. He mumbled back in response, which was when she must have realized he was still gagged. She yanked the gag off and went back to working on the knot around his wrists.

"You're gonna need something sharp." He choked out, spitting some flecks of material off his tongue. He watched her fruitless efforts to untie the thick rope. "Try that thing." He said, nodding toward a demon claw located nearby. She made a disgusted face, but nevertheless, obediently picked up the severed demon part and using it to saw through his bonds. Angel and Wesley contended with Barney and the half-dozen or so security guards still left standing.

"Thanks for coming to my rescue, Princess." He grinned down at her, as she sawed ferociously.

"Don't thank me yet." She gritted out from the effort. Finally, the rope broke around Doyle's wrists and he immediately pushed her to the side, jumped out of his seat, and landed an impressive punch on Barney, who'd been inches away from stabbing Cordelia in the back with the Kungai horn.

Doyle didn't stop at one punch. Or even two. And by the third, Barney had dropped the horn and fallen to his knees. Cordelia scooted forward and snatched the horn for herself, wielding it defensively. Good thing she did, because although Barney looked like he was down, he leapt back up the moment Doyle turned to head-butt a security guard behind him. Barney grabbed Doyle around the throat from behind, and Doyle gasped against the tight grip, having trouble breathing. Cordelia didn't hesitate, springing from her crouched position, she plunged the Kungai horn into Barney's exposed back and watched as his body turned black and then deflated.

She stood in shocked silence, and then looked up to see a very grateful Doyle staring back at her. She flung herself through the empty space, previously occupied by Barney and landed in Doyle's somewhat-surprised arms. Even so, he caught her easily, and hugged her back, mumbling into her hair. "Now can I thank ya, darlin'?"

She laughed against him, and finally pulled back, flashing him a relieved smile. "Now you can thank all of us." She said, gesturing to Angel who stood nearby and Wesley who was hunched over, trying to catch his breath. "Saving you was a team effort."

Doyle took one last look around the place, noting that the buyer had long since fled the scene. Still, he was going to have to mention to Angel that a certain shady law firm they'd encountered once before was involved in this underhanded business.

"Angel, man. I never doubted ya for a second." Doyle said with a grin aimed at his best friend. "And Wesley… I never gave ya a second thought."

Wesley frowned at Doyle's dig, but saw the sparkle in his eyes as he said it. "Thanks to all of ya." Doyle clarified. "Now, if it's all the same to you, I could really use a drink."

* * *

Doyle sat tensely on the little green couch in the front office.

"Does it hurt?" Cordelia asked, probably noticing that he had been holding his breath for an extended period of time.

He let it out slowly. "No, it's fine. Keep going." He replied, making a concerted effort to sound relaxed.

He was feeling anything but relaxed, since currently, his right hand was laying in Cordelia's lap. She was diligently applying ointment to his burned wrist as the first aid kit sat open beside her. He'd told her it was no big deal, but she'd been adamant about taking care of his red and swollen skin—noting that she had recent experience with rope burn and knew it wasn't pleasant. She'd also pointed out that Doyle's was significantly worse than hers had been, probably because he'd struggled more and for longer. The bruises on his face weren't so great-looking either, but there wasn't much she could offer for that aside from an icepack which now sat melting on the coffee table.

So, yeah, he'd had a pretty rough day.

Cordelia blew lightly on his wrist, and he felt tingling everywhere in his body. And just like that, his day got a lot better.

"That was a close call." She remarked, wrapping a light strip of gauze around his right wrist and securing it in place with a piece of medical tape. "If we'd been a few minutes later, you would've lost your best feature."

He pulled his right hand away, and she gestured for him to give her his left. He did so without argument. "My best feature, huh?" He repeated questioningly. "Be careful, Princess, that almost sounded like a compliment."

"Don't let it go to your head." She said dryly, laying his left hand gently across her lap and rearranging her medical supplies in the box next to her.

He studied her closely, wondering where all this concern and compassion had come from. Not that he was complaining. After the wall of hostility he'd been faced with since the night on the Quintessa, having her worrying over him was a huge relief. But, it was also confusing, considering that the last time he'd seen her, she'd been racing away from him with tears streaming down her cheeks. And before that, the temperature had been tepid at best. Frankly, he couldn't keep track of where they were supposed to be at this point, but he was fairly certain it was not _this_. This was better. He wanted to keep this.

"Are ya okay, love?" He asked gently, deciding to test the seemingly placid waters.

She gave him a funny look. "I wasn't the damsel in distress, Doyle. That would be you."

"Yeah, I knew we shouldn't have trusted that bastard empath." Doyle muttered in remembered annoyance. He turned his concerned eyes back toward her as she worked. "Listen, Cordy. I know he said some things to ya earlier that upset ya. Whatever he said… it wasn't true. He was reading your fears, trying to get under your skin. He did the same to me as soon as you left."

She bit down on her lower lip and he could tell he'd hit the proverbial nail on the head. Whatever Barney had said to her, had penetrated deep and was likely still bothering her. She gave him a small, fleeting smile, very unlike her usual confident one. "I know." She assured him. "I mean… I didn't know it then, but I do now."

He was more than a little tempted to ask her what Barney had used against her, but then she may ask the same of him, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to have to answer that in great detail. He did have another question that really couldn't wait another day, no matter what type of response it elicited. "So… are _we_ okay here? You and me?"

She squeezed a bit too much ointment out of the tube and scrambled for a cotton swab to dab it up. Her movements were clumsy and rushed. "I don't know what you mean." She said evasively, keeping her eyes on her work, as had become her recent custom. Although, this time, it didn't seem to be borne of anger, but something else entirely. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"Cordelia." He said, using a voice that demanded her eye contact, which she finally gave hesitantly. "Things haven't really seemed right between us since the night with the Scourge and all that. Something's different now, yeah?"

She inhaled sharply, but gave a nod so subtle, he almost wasn't certain it was a nod at all. Even so, his heart began to pound in his chest as his lips formed around his next question. "Is it because I'm half demon?" He asked, his throat closing up around the words. "If you're having trouble with that—"

"I don't have a problem with that." She said emphatically, in a way that left no doubt. "You're still you, Doyle. I don't see you any differently now than I did before."

"Ya haven't seen the other face yet, love." He mumbled quietly, more to himself than to her.

"Well, when you want to show it to me, I'll see it." She said plainly, surprising the absolute hell out of him. He'd expected her to demand that he show it to her, or even worse, ban him from ever doing so. "It can't be any worse than this one." She smiled up at him teasingly as she said that last line, and he couldn't help but smile back. Her smiles were infectious, after all. And this jab had no malice in it; quite the opposite, in fact. It was as healing as the ointment she was rubbing liberally on his burnt skin.

"But… maybe I do know what you mean about the last few days." She admitted, dropping her eyes back to his wound as she reached for another piece of gauze to complete her task. "It's been kinda brutal, huh?"

"It has seemed a bit more personal, as of late." He agreed. "Not our usual brand of more jovial bickering and such."

"Can we go back? To the jovial stuff?" She asked hopefully, returning her dark eyes to his shining green ones, and finding a lot more waiting there than his next words implied.

"I'd like to think so." He said agreeably, but there was a slight undercurrent to his voice, encouraging her not to let the subject drop just yet. "We're friends, aren't we?"

"Friends…yeah." Her lips began to form other words she desperately wanted to say. _Friends_ was the problem. _More than friends_ would be better _._ But, try as she might, she couldn't squeeze that sentiment past her stubbornly closed vocal chords.

She saw his eyes shift from their usual adoration to curiosity, and that's when she realized she was still holding his left hand in her lap. It was already wrapped and secured, waiting to be returned to him, but instead, she was holding it in both of her own hands, as if it belonged to her.

"No reason we shouldn't act like it then." Doyle said in little more than a whisper, his words laced with subtext.

An electrical current went through Cordelia's body, seeming to originate from the place where their hands were joined. And since she was still looking directly at him, she thought he could probably see her reaction to said current. Maybe she could see it in him, too. Maybe that's why she felt compelled to lean forward to observe it more closely.

"Mmm hmmm." She was vaguely aware of agreeing with whatever he'd said to her, but it was hard to hear anything over the sound of her blood rapidly flowing through her veins. She blamed his hand, which she still clutched. It seemed to radiate heat that had rapidly spread throughout her body, causing her vital signs to spike.

He was leaning, too. Closer. They were breathing shared air space, and the few remaining inches were eclipsing rapidly—

"Ahem."

The rough clearing of a throat from across the room, snapped her out of the tractor beam she'd been captured in. She sat back abruptly, more abruptly than he did. Doyle barely moved at all, merely shifting his eyes to his right to destroy whatever had made the throat-clearing noise with the power of his gaze. Which, as Cordelia could attest to, was quite powerful. It had almost just conquered her most completely.

"Angel sent me up… he, uh… he wants to know if you'll be coming down for breakfast." Wesley spoke uncertainly; aware that he'd walked in on something he shouldn't have interrupted.

Cordelia sat all the way back, placing Doyle's left hand back into his own lap and patting it gently. "All done." She said breathily, immediately turning back to her first aid kit to put everything back into place.

"Tell him we're coming." Doyle replied tightly, still mostly frozen in place, now watching Cordelia's skittish movements. She'd slammed the lid of the first aid kit down before she'd gotten all the gauze back in and it stuck out, preventing her from securing the latch. She was pushing on it fervently, more than a hint of frustration edging into her body language.

Wesley had gone, but their moment had passed. Doyle inhaled slowly, collecting himself, and then calmly took the first aid kit from Cordelia's fumbling grasp. "Here, lemme get that for ya, love. Least I can do after ya patched me up so nice-like."

He reopened the box and adjusted the gauze inside, allowing the lid to close properly. She had hopped up off the couch as soon as he'd taken the item from her. "Great. Thanks!" She chirped, her voice sounding overly bright and unnatural. "I just realized how hungry I am! If I don't eat soon, I might pass out from low blood sugar or something." She was half way to the door before Doyle even moved to stand.

Disappointment started to set in as she bounded away, and yet as he absorbed what had almost happened a slow smile spread across his lips.

He was getting through. Demon or not, he was definitely getting through.


	7. Somnambulist, Pt 1

**"Somnambulist," Part I**

"Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless…. Oh, hi Harry. I'm good…. Yeah, he's here. Hold on a sec."

Cordelia pushed the hold button carefully, so as not to "accidentally" hang up on Doyle's ex-wife and turned toward the slouched figure on the couch, hiding behind his newspaper. "Doyle!"

From the way he jumped, and the slight evidence of drool he wiped from the corner of his mouth, she could tell he'd been dozing behind that paper. He looked at her as if she'd offended him by yelling his name, but she merely smiled sweetly and pointed toward the blinking hold-light on the phone. "Harry's on the phone for you."

"Harry?" He asked dumbly.

"Yeah, Harry. Pretty, curly hair, used to be married to you. That Harry." She said flippantly. "You wanna take it or are you just gonna leave her holding there forever?"

"Ah… yeah. I'll just..." He got up off the couch, wiping the sleep out of his eyes as he shuffled toward Angel's office, indicating that he'd pick up the line in there. He closed the door behind him, and she watched through the semi-open blinds as he sat down behind Angel's desk and picked up the line on which his ex-wife waited patiently. Or not patiently. She couldn't tell either way, and Doyle's demeanor was unreadable as he spoke into the receiver.

She turned back to the note paper in front of her on which she'd written down a little script she planned to use on future clients, should they have any. She tapped the pencil against the words, having completely lost her train of thought. Instead of selling their business to non-existent clients, she was now imagining the conversation going on between Doyle and his ex-wife. She'd thought they weren't going to speak for a while—at least, that was the impression she'd gotten from Doyle. Mostly because he'd said exactly that. He said they both needed space so they could move on, and yet, here he was chatting away the minutes with the woman who still bore his last name, a remnant of her former place in his life.

Cordelia hated feeling jealous. She hated feeling anything at all. And yet lately, all she did was hemorrhage feelings when it came to Doyle. No matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise.

The front door opened and Wesley entered. "Good Afternoon, Cordelia. You're looking ravishing today."

She wrinkled her nose in his direction. "What do you want Wesley?" She asked in a bored tone, still sneaking peeks at Doyle through the blinds. He was still talking… or listening was more like it. Doodling away on Angel's desktop blotter… oooh, Angel was going to hate that. He kept his desk neater than Cordelia kept her own, and she kept hers pretty spotless most of the time. Unless she had cosmetics spread all over it, or magazines.

Wesley had walked up to the desk and followed her gaze through the blinds. "Oh, Doyle's here, I see." He said disapprovingly. "Does he usually sit at Angel's desk?"

"Only when Angel isn't around to see him do it." Cordelia remarked, rolling her eyes and then waving for Wesley to move away from her desk. "I was in the middle of something. What did you say you needed?"

He walked over to the couch and took the seat recently vacated by Doyle. He crossed his legs, and tried to look casual. "I just thought I'd pop in to compare battle plans from our respective fronts."

"Doyle hasn't had any visions, if that's what you're asking." She said, arching her brow as he picked up Doyle's newspaper that had been tossed aside on the couch cushions. "And if he sees you out here, messing with his paper, he'll probably forcibly remove you from the premises."

Wesley didn't answer and she looked back up to see what had shut him up so quickly. He was staring intently at the front page of the newspaper as if he'd seen a ghost. "You know…" Wesley stood back up, still clutching the paper in his hand. "I just remembered… I, I think I left my stove on."

Cordelia had already looked away, now focused on the shining light on the telephone that meant Doyle was _still_ on the phone with Harriet. This was more than just a little chat. This was, like, significant phone time. She wondered what Angel would have to say about Doyle using the company line for personal calls.

Wesley might have said goodbye, or he might've just stumbled wordlessly out the door. She really hadn't been paying enough attention to know, nor did she care. The light on the phone went out, and she saw Doyle stand up and move back to the door, opening it and reentering the front office.

She tried to make it look like she'd been busy writing the whole time he was on the phone.

"Was someone out here?" He asked, pausing in the doorway and looking around as if there was someone hiding somewhere he couldn't see.

"No." She answered. "I mean, except for Wesley."

"Wesley?" Doyle replied, the now familiar look of annoyance that Doyle seemed to have created especially for Wesley appeared on his face. "What'd he want?"

"I think he wanted to brag about his new stove?" She answered, with a shrug. She could've sworn he'd said something to that effect. Granted, she'd been a little distracted by Doyle chatting up his ex-wife.

"We're never getting ridda that one now, are we?" He asked sorely, heading back to sink into his usual spot on the couch.

"Probably not." She admitted. "He's like one of those dogs that follows you home and you feel bad kicking it out, even though it pees on the carpet a lot."

Doyle's forehead created rows of deep lines as his eyes searched the floor below his feet. "I'm seriously hoping that was just a metaphor, love."

A loud bang from Angel's office, caused both Cordelia and Doyle to turn their focus to their boss' doorway where he appeared, looking like a walking corpse—which is basically what he was, but he didn't usually _look_ like it. He didn't bother greeting either one of them, making a beeline to the coffee machine and pouring himself a cup.

"Morning, boss man." Cordelia chirped from behind her desk. "Even though it's afternoon—kinda late, even by your creature-of-the-night standards."

"Didn't sleep well." Angel grunted, turning to Doyle. "Did you follow up on that license plate thing?"

"Ah… yeah, the thing of it is… remember how I said I had a contact at the DMV?" Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Turns out that's no longer the case. In fact… it's probably better if someone else is on DMV-duty from now on."

Angel's eyes turned to the ceiling in obvious exasperation. "It was supposed to be a simple thing, Doyle." He snapped impatiently. "You said you'd handle it."

"I'm sorry, man." Doyle said defensively. "Nothing I could do. I even tried calling and disguising my voice and all that. That just made 'em think I was a stalker, which they don't take too kindly to, as y'can imagine. At least now ya have an excuse to go see your favorite local law enforcement agent, yeah?"

Angel sighed heavily, putting his mug of coffee down and reaching out an open palm toward Cordelia. "License plate, Cordelia."

She wordlessly wrote down the plate number on a post-it, dropped it into Angel's outstretched hand and watched as he marched toward the front door. "Um, Angel…" She called after him.

He continued out the door and right into a patch of sunlight. Jerking back, he hissed with pain and retreated several steps back into the safety of the office. As he headed back in the direction of his office, he was careful not to make eye contact with Doyle or Cordelia. "I'll take the tunnels." He mumbled over his shoulder.

They sat in silence for a moment, before Cordelia turned to Doyle with a quirked eyebrow. "What bee flew into his bonnet? And why was he taking it out on you?"

Doyle shook his head, a vaguely troubled expression crossing his features. "That I don't know, Princess."

"Angel's not usually so careless with the sun exposure either. I'd say he's a little off his game."

Doyle leaned back into the cushion behind him thoughtfully. "I guess even vampires have bad days. Maybe doing a little legwork will be good for the guy. Help clear the cobwebs." He said motioning to his own head. He reached out to the seat beside him and felt only the empty cushion. He furrowed his brow further, lifting the cushion and peaking underneath.

"Did someone take my newspaper?"

* * *

"So, ah... Cordy, I was thinkin' maybe we could grab a bite to eat or something. If ya don't have any other plans tonight, o'course."

At his invitation, she had paused briefly, before slinging her purse over her shoulder. "Like a date?" She asked, and he could hear the hesitance in her voice.

Doyle had been standing patiently as Cordelia collected her belongings, intent on leaving for the day. He wasn't really asking her out, per se. He was looking for an excuse to spend more time with her outside of the office, and as far as he knew, she didn't have any previous engagements this evening. At least, she hadn't mentioned anything, and it was generally her habit to rattle off her daily itinerary to him, whether it was a yoga class, an audition, a party… or a date.

That last one always stung, but, mercifully, he had been spared from that recently. Doyle tried not to let it get his hopes up about what that might mean, but he couldn't simply forget about the kiss he'd shared with the other Cordelia, or the feelings he'd gleaned from it. And then, there'd been that moment when he could've sworn _his_ Cordelia wanted him to kiss her—where he almost _had_ kissed her, whether she wanted him to or not.

Since then, things had been frustratingly platonic—he wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but he was fairly certain Cordelia was keeping it that way. Or maybe it was just the nature of the holiday season. Whenever he so much as considered asking her to dinner, she would suddenly announce a new social obligation. Christmas Party here, New Year's Party there. She'd even had a birthday that he only found out about by sheer luck—some girl named Willow had left a message on the answering machine and he had heard it before Cordelia could erase it. Doyle ran right out and bought her a cupcake with a candle—and although she refused to eat it due to the insane amount of calories—she had smiled brightly as she blew out the candle.

He'd have gotten her a lot more than a cupcake if he didn't think it'd come off as too presumptuous.

Now that the holiday dust had settled, he figured he should stop analyzing the reasons he hadn't been able to ask her out yet, and actually do so. Of course, he didn't need to do it at this precise moment…

"No, no, not like a date." He said quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. "Like two hungry people who both need to eat and haven't done much in the way of grocery shopping lately."

He gave her a hopeful, completely innocent and non-pushy grin, and he saw the exact moment she caved. "I _am_ hungry." She answered, unceremoniously walking to his side and slipping her arm through his waiting elbow. "And I'm pretty sure all I have in my fridge is diet coke and ketchup."

He gave her an exaggerated wince. "Not a terribly appetizing combination. I'm sure we can do better than that. Maybe get something that goes well with ketchup, or if we're feeling real fancy we could have mustard instead."

They were both laughing as they opened the front door to exit. A figure loitering in their hallway startled them from their revelry. Cordelia had naturally stepped backward to avoid the figure, while Doyle had naturally stepped forward to protect her from whatever it was.

As it turned out, it wasn't much.

"Geez, Wesley. Hover much?" Cordelia snapped, catching her breath.

"What ya doing hiding in our hallway all shady-like?" Doyle demanded, giving Wesley that irritated look which had been patented just for him.

"Uh... good evening... I..." He peeked past the two of them into the empty office. "Is Angel here?"

It's at that point that Doyle noticed a pointy, wooden object gripped tightly in Wesley's right hand. He brought his own arm down on Wesley's forearm in warning. "Kinda rude coming into a vampire's place a business with one of those things, yeah? Could be misinterpreted."

"A stake?!" Cordelia yelped from over Doyle's shoulder. "Did you lose your mind along with your position on the Watcher's Council, Wesley?!"

"Please, just hear me out?" Wesley pleaded, mostly in Doyle's direction.

The guy didn't cower under Doyle's venomous glare. Not that Doyle thought of himself as all that dangerous, but Wesley knew he was more-than-human and therefore, probably thought he was capable of a great deal more physical harm than most. And, right about now, Doyle was pretty certain he was. Even as the blood rushed through his veins, he loosened his hold on the other man's arm. "Better hope I don't hear the wrong thing."

Wesley nodded, retracting his arm from Doyle's grasp and using his other hand to pull a newspaper clipping from his pocket. He held it up so both Doyle and Cordelia could see the headline. "I saw this earlier today."

"Is that from my paper?" Doyle asked, finally solving the case of his missing newspaper. "So far, you're not makin' much of a case for me not to kick your ass, bud."

"Don't say I didn't warn you." Cordelia reminded Wesley. She quickly scanned the headline. "So what. Third body found in alley? Not exactly front page news."

"Actually, that is the front page." Wesley stammered, shoving the clipping into Doyle's hand and pointing at a specific section of the small typeface. "But, note the modus operandi. The mutilation of the corpse with a religious icon."

"I'm against it?" Cordelia replied questioningly.

Doyle stared down at the words in front of him, suddenly understanding why Wesley had shown up at their door with a stake in hand. He stared down harder, willing the words away. Willing the suspicions that went with them away. He was only vaguely aware of Cordelia and Wesley still conversing in the background; his pulse had become so loud in his own ears that it drowned them both out. They had stepped around him, reentering the office and Wesley was showing Cordelia something he'd pulled from his bag. Doyle was slowly pulled out of his fugue state by the sound of Cordelia's voice, raised angrily in objection.

"No! I don't care how many files you have on all the horrible things he did back in the powdered wig days! He is good now. And he's our friend. And nothing you or anyone else can say will make us turn on a friend. Right, Doyle? Tell him!"

Two sets of questioning eyes landed on Doyle and he said nothing, which made Cordelia's eyes, in particular, go wide with distress. "Doyle, did you hear me? Tell him that Angel didn't do it. In fact, feel free to make good on your ass-kicking promise."

"He can't."

The voice was Angel's. He'd appeared in the doorway between the two offices, eyes firmly planted on Doyle, seeing the pained expression that waited for him there.

Doyle knew what the words on the page meant. He knew enough about Angelus to recognize the familiar pattern. After all, if he was going to work for the guy, he had to know his history, even if he wasn't that guy anymore.

What he didn't know was why this would be happening now, or why it was fear hew saw when he searched Angel's eyes for an answer to that unspoken question.


	8. Somnambulist, Pt 2

**"Somnambulist," Part II**

"For the record, I know ya didn't do it, man. Just so we're clear, this whole thing is for your peace of mind, not mine."

Doyle finished securing the chains around Angel's bed, testing them in several locations to make sure there was no chance of Angel wriggling his way out of them through the night. He'd already sent Wesley and Cordelia home— separately, of course. Cordelia had been concerned, but he had assured her that: A) Angel didn't kill anyone; of that, he had no doubt. The vivid nightmares Angel had described weren't going to convince Doyle otherwise. B) Doyle was half demon, so even if Angel planned on killing someone, it wasn't likely to be him. And C) he'd use extra chains, just in case he was wrong about both A and B.

"Thank you for that. For all of it." Angel said sincerely. "I appreciate you defending me the way you did up there…"

"No need to thank me." Doyle replied. "What kinda friend would I be if I didn't kick that pompous Brit out the door and chain ya to the bed like ya asked?"

Doyle finished his work and sat down heavily in the chair he'd pulled up to the side of the bed. He leaned back into the leather cushions and put his feet up, crossing them at the ankles.

"So..." Angel began, looking like he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Doyle sat patiently, letting his friend know he was all ears. "You didn't see anything about me killing again in your vision of the future?"

Doyle didn't answer right away, and maybe that was a giveaway, in and of itself. The vision had been dense, and had encompassed a large span of time—not much of it made sense, and what did was vague at best. Somewhere along the way, Doyle was more than a little certain that Angel would be responsible for some human deaths. And some of them may even come at the hands of Angelus. But, the whole point of knowing the future, was to make sure it didn't happen. He was confident the Angelus of his vision would never make an appearance on this timeline, not if Doyle did his job right. "There was nothing like this, man."

"Anything else you want to talk about?" Angel asked. "You have a captive audience who's not big on sleeping through the night." He looked like he was trying to get comfortable, but realized it was a lost cause. "How are things going with Cordelia lately?"

"They seem to be on a bit of an upswing." Doyle answered, unable to keep the grin from forming. "Just before our evening took _this_ charming turn, we were all set to have dinner together."

"You finally asked her out." Angel enthused as much as Angel enthused about anything. He raised his eyebrows in surprise anyway.

"Not officially." Doyle clarified. "It was just a casual thing. The point is, she didn't object to spending time with me outside of work. I'd say we're back to where we were before the whole demon thing blew up in my face."

"Okay. So, why haven't you asked her out?"

Doyle shrugged, not entirely sure how to answer that question. Despite all the positive signs that told him he should go for it, he was still wary of having her retreat again. "Ah... y'know how she can be, man. I think my long-term chances would be better if I play the friend card a little longer. Make sure she knows she can depend on me."

Angel nodded. "That actually makes a lot of sense."

Doyle's brow creased in mock-offense. "Maybe ya could try that again without so much shock in your voice. I have been known to make sense from time to time, yeah?"

"You shouldn't wait too long." Angel advised.

Doyle shifted slightly in his seat, pulling his legs down from their outstretched position. "There is one other thing I wanted to run by ya... something you've had some experience with."

"Just dump the coffee down the bathroom drain when she's not looking." Angel replied, without missing a beat. "If you pour it in the planters, the plants wither and die. I found that out the hard way."

Doyle couldn't help but chortle at that. "Ah… I'll keep that in mind…"

"What's the real question?" Angel wondered with a subtle smirk.

"It's about Harry." Doyle confessed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "She called me, looking to talk. Said she was sorry for blaming me for all the Richard stuff."

"That was nice of her." Angel said lightly. " What made her come around?"

"No idea." Doyle admitted with a slight shrug. "Could be a New Year's resolution for all I know. Anyway, now she wants to try and be friends and all that. Askin' me if we can get together and have a real talk, face to face."

"Doesn't seem like you like that idea." Angel noted, shifting slightly, causing the chains to clank dissonantly against each other.

Doyle winced at the noise, or maybe at the comment. "Truth is, I dunno if I can do the whole friends thing, much as I'd like to. I thought it hurt when she didn't wanna talk to me, but I'm thinkin' it might be a whole lot worse if she does. Something to be said 'bout making a clean break—it's a lot less confusing that way. And now that I'm looking to move on..." He shook his head, not knowing exactly how to end that sentence. He _was_ ready to move forward not backward, but that didn't mean Harry was suddenly meaningless.

"Well, you're talking to someone who saved his ex-girlfriend's life without ever telling her he was in town, and then rewound a whole day so she'd forget we spent it together... Maybe I'm not the best person to ask about ex-relations." Angel reminded him.

"True enough." Doyle conceded with an eyebrow raise to punctuate his words. "And, no offense, I don't wanna be that guy. Especially not with the woman I once swore to spend a lifetime with. If Harriet wants me as a friend, I'm thinkin' I should probably suck it up and be there for her, no matter how it makes me feel."

"Second time today you've made complete sense." Angel said with a chuckle. "Must be some kind of record."

Doyle swatted the air in front of him dismissively. "Keep it up, mate, and I might not unfasten those chains come morning." He settled back into the leather cushion, clasping his hands in his lap and leaning his head back in a relaxed pose. "Thanks, man." He said meaningfully.

"For what?" Angel asked. "I didn't tell you anything you didn't already know."

"Yeah, well... turns out it makes a real difference havin' someone to listen." Doyle answered, appreciative of the fact that he'd found a friend like Angel. And certain that this night would prove his friend was someone worth standing by.

"Okay, now it's your turn to make with the sharing." Doyle said, turning the tables. "So…how's Kate doing?"

* * *

"Wakie, wakie!"

Doyle awoke with a start, his head slipping off the arm he'd propped it up against. He blinked several times, trying to remember why he had thought it would be a good idea to sleep on Angel's leather chair, which had to be one of the single most uncomfortable pieces of furniture ever made by human hands. As the clouds of slumber slowly parted, he saw that Angel also looked dazed, having been sound asleep prior to Cordelia's rather jarring arrival.

The good news was his chains were still in place. And judging by the huge smile beaming into the bedroom courtesy of the loveliest Office Manager Doyle had ever seen, there was probably some other good news as well.

"Great news, sports fans, there's been another killing!" Cordelia's smile faltered, but only slightly. "Well, maybe not so great news for the, y'know, dead person, but at least now we know that Mr. 'I'm so tortured' didn't do it." Her smile changed again, to something that was dimmer, but more genuine. "I knew it wasn't you, Angel—I mean, not in the sense that I had any idea it wasn't you, but… it wasn't just Doyle who defended your honor yesterday."

"The lady doesn't lie." Doyle agreed, standing from the chair and stretching his stiff limbs. "Ya shoulda heard her give Wesley a piece of that lovely mind."

Cordelia's eyes redirected toward Doyle and for third time in as many minutes, the nature of her smile changed. This time it appeared a little more intimate, the kind of smile that held promise of things to come. She shook herself out of the mild daze and continued with her original thought pattern. "Speaking of Wesley...I'd better call him and let him know. Just so he doesn't show up here with anymore inappropriately pointy wooden objects."

She flitted out of the room, leaving Doyle still grinning appreciatively in her wake. After he a moment he began the arduous task of removing the multitude of heavy chains he'd wrapped around his vampire boss the previous evening.

"Can't help but notice you're not quite as cheerful as this morning's messenger." Doyle mused, unlocking the first of many padlocks. "Care to explain the continued doom and gloom in Angel City."

"I am responsible." Angel said quietly, almost to himself.

Doyle took that in, not bothering to halt the task of unwrapping the chains. "Well, don't leave a fella hangin'. If you're still feelin' responsible, you're gonna have to give me an actual reason."

"I made him." Angel responded, revealing little in the way of emotion. "200 years ago... I taught Penn everything he knows."

Doyle paused at that revelation, feeling an involuntary chill go down his spine. It shouldn't have been as shocking as it felt—Angel had been evil for a long time; he was bound to have a protégé. Or many, for that matter. Doyle had already met one of them and he wasn't too keen to meet any more.

"Before ya had a soul." Doyle said plainly, returning to his task.

"It's my blood that gave him life after death." Angel lamented, his even-temper fraying away. "That's why I'm having the dreams. They're so… vivid. Like I'm living them myself."

Doyle said nothing as he unlocked the last of the padlocks and loosened the chains enough for Angel to unravel the rest himself. He stood leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, observing his friend closely. He couldn't possibly understand the guilt and regret that Angel carried around. His own sins were barely blips on the radar compared to what the demon known as Angelus had done. But, there was something else at play here. Something else making Angel doubt himself in a way he hadn't done since Doyle had met him. "Will ya be able to kill him?"

Angel stood from the bed, free of the restraints and looked at Doyle, traces of worry permeating his usually confident facade. "I hope so."

* * *

Doyle sat in the driver's seat of Angel's car, jumping when Angel abruptly opened the passenger side door and got in. He wordlessly placed a police scanner on the dashboard and turned it on.

"Kate gave that to ya?" Doyle asked, with a raised brow. "Or are ya borrowing it without her knowledge?"

"The latter." Angel replied tonelessly. "I gave Kate just enough to get her killed. As soon as she finds something, we'll know, and we'll be able to keep that from happening."

"Yeah, getting Kate killed isn't high on the to-do list for today." Doyle quipped, leaning back in his seat. "So now we just sit here and wait, yeah? Didn't happen to bring a deck a cards, did ya?"

"Knowing Kate, we won't be waiting that long." Angel answered, turning up the volume on the police scanner and settling back into his seat.

Doyle studied his friend, observing the dense storm clouds that had rolled in since the realization that Angel's progeny was responsible for the spree of recent murders. This wasn't the Angel he was used to seeing—not to say that Angel wasn't always tormented by his past, because that was basically his defining trait. But, this time was different. This time Angel's past wasn't merely haunting him, but forcing him to relive it. Vividly. Which was why Angel was doubting himself in a way that Doyle had heretofore never seen before—if he were being honest, it scared the hell out of him.

They sat in mostly silence as the police scanner crackled with static and occasional bursts of activity. Once the sun had finally gone down, Doyle knew it was only a matter of time—something was coming.

That something came.

The scanner crackled to life. _"All units. Backup requested at 3336 Channel Avenue. Use caution. Multiple homicide suspect believed to be on the location."_

"Sounds like we're up." Doyle remarked, as he started the car and pulled out of the parking space they'd been occupying for the better part of the afternoon into evening.

"Not us." Angel corrected. "Me. We get there—you stay clear. Got it?"

"Don't have to tell me twice." Doyle agreed, as he pulled out of the garage and onto the street, driving faster than the speed limit strictly allowed. He knew he'd be unlikely to be pulled over with all units otherwise occupied. "Anyway, it's not me who ya have to worry about."

"Drive faster." Angel gritted out in reply, knowing Doyle was right.

Doyle complied and it wasn't long before they pulled up to the scene. The place was crawling with cops, and Angel was out of the car and making a beeline toward the front of the building, before Doyle had even thrown the car into park. Doyle could see a familiar blonde speaking into a walkie-talkie at the front of the building; Angel avoided her by leaping up onto a drainpipe and masterfully scaling the side of the building.

"And he wonders why we make all the Batman jokes." Doyle muttered to himself, turning off the ignition and getting out of the car to cross the street.

He, unlike Angel, headed directly for Kate, who was busy instructing a group of uniforms. "I want all exits covered. I'm going in." She spun around with her weapon drawn and a determined look on her face. She wasn't thrilled to see Doyle approaching. "If you're here, I'm guessing Angel's around, too. He already inside?"

"Don't sound so disappointed." Doyle said amicably, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Angel can take care of himself—and, don't forget, he's the reason you were able to find this guy."

"Angel's a civilian." Kate shot back. "And so are you. Neither of you should be here. Now stay back." She gestured to the line of police tape that Doyle had blatantly ignored, before turning back to the entrance of the building and slipping inside. Doyle watched helplessly, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop her—nothing that wouldn't have resulted in him ending up cuffed in the back of a cop car anyway. And even then, she'd probably have went inside.

Doyle sighed heavily and paced back toward the edge of the scene, just outside the police tape. He kept his eyes trained on the windows that lined the front side of the dark building and waited. All he could do was wait… and hope.

And listen.

A series of gunshots were fired from somewhere inside, causing commotion from the cops outside. Doyle was close enough to hear the crackling of a radio on one cop's belt, therefore, he heard the faint sound of Kate's voice coming through. _"Request assistance. Full tactical units. Second floor, southwest corner. Request assistance, suspect sighted..."_

Kate was right in the thick of it. Doyle had a feeling tonight might just be the night she finally learned about the darker, more supernatural, underbelly of Los Angeles.

" _Lockley, Lockley, where are you?"_ Another voice on the radio came through—this one louder, clearer and more urgent. Probably belonging to one of the many cops who'd flooded through the entrance to the warehouse, responding to Kate's request for backup.

It was several long minutes more before, Angel came spiraling back down the drainpipe and charging toward the car Doyle had left parked across the street. Doyle broke into a jog to meet him there.

"What happened in there, man? Is Kate okay?" He asked Angel, who appeared to be more than a little unhinged. He swung the driver side door open with much more force than necessary, and then paused, staring down at the ground beneath his feet.

"She saw my face, Doyle." Angel gritted through a clenched jaw. "That was _after_ she shot Penn three times. Needless to say, he didn't die."

"What ya think she's gonna do? Play the extreme denial card, or grab a torch and a pitch fork?" Doyle heard himself ask, despite the fact that it probably wasn't the exact right time to do so.

"Right now, seems like denial. And that's probably gonna get her killed." With that declaration, Angel got into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut behind him in an obvious show of frustration.

Doyle made his away around to the passenger side of the car as Angel revved the ignition from inside. Once Doyle had rejoined Angel in the car, Angel pulled the car away from the curb and pointed them back toward the office. As they drove, Doyle turned back toward his friend, hoping he could say something to soothe the burn of having his demon nature revealed to someone he hadn't wanted to reveal it to—a scenario Doyle himself was all too familiar with.

"Ya said it yourself." Doyle pointed out. "She's a good cop. She's got good instincts, and she knows better than to ignore what she sees with her own eyes."

"Does she?" Angel asked, not as certain as Doyle sounded. "And what happens when she does believe her eyes? Will she come after me?" Angel finished the thought Doyle hadn't put a voice to. "Because now she not only knows that monsters exist—she knows I'm one of them. Just like Penn."

"Not just like him." Doyle shook his head. "Not even close, man."

"She comes after me, how long will it take before she starts a full blown witch hunt?" Angel wondered out loud, keeping his eyes focused on the road in front of them. "Not only would that put her in danger, but it'll make the people around me targets. You'll be the first person she looks into after she's finished with me, you know that, right?"

"Oh, I dunno about that. I'd say Cordy has a more demonic vibe than I do." Doyle tried to lighten the mood with a joke, but judging by Angel's murky glare it was a fruitless effort.

"It wouldn't be hard for me to prove I'm not a vampire." Doyle rationalized with an unconcerned shrug. "All I'd have to do is stand in direct sunlight. That'd probably be enough to keep her from digging any deeper. And anyway, man, you're jumping way ahead of things here. We're still at the full-blown denial stage, remember?"

"The one that will get her killed even quicker." Angel frowned to himself, increasing the speed of the vehicle slightly.

"Maybe she'll find that happy medium." Doyle hoped. "Acceptance? That's always a possibility."

"I don't think she'll find it in time to stop Penn." Angel remarked, before making an abrupt right turn, sending them headed in the opposite direction of the office. "I'm taking you home, Doyle. You've done enough for me today. You need a real night's sleep."

"Ya sure you'll be okay?" Doyle asked. He was beyond exhausted, having barely slept the previous night, but he wasn't going to leave Angel's side if he thought he was still needed there. "What if your little protégé decides to stop by and see ya tonight?"

"Then, I won't have to worry about Kate." Angel said plainly. "I'll kill him myself."


	9. Somnambulist, Pt 3

**"Somnambulist," Part III**

"I think you were right, Harry. It'll be...uh, nice. To see ya, that is."

Doyle sat on the corner of Angel's desk, talking into the telephone receiver he balanced precariously against his shoulder. He was making plans to have a face-to-face discussion with his ex-wife that didn't involve a room full of his co-workers or her almost-future-in-laws. He dreaded it slightly less than he had when she'd first suggested it—his discussion with Angel a couple days prior, as one-sided as it had been—actually had helped Doyle put things in perspective. The truth was, he'd always wanted to make Harriet happy, and if it made her happy now to clear the air with him, then it was the least he could do. He could handle it. Maybe it would help to heal them both in ways he hadn't thought were possible.

"Tomorrow's good. Why don't ya come by the office around five, yeah?"

As he shifted his weight against the desk, he noticed that there was a second figure visible through the half-closed blinds separating Angel's office from Cordelia's reception area. His assumption had been that it was Wesley, come to pay his daily unwelcome visit, but the shape seemed slightly more ominous than Wesley. It moved distinctly like a predator.

Doyle swallowed hard; getting a bad feeling about the unidentified person Cordelia was now giving the hard sell to.

"Yeah… Harry, I gotta go. Work stuff. See ya tomorrow."

He hung up the phone and moved closer to the blinds, lifting one sheath to peer through the window. Doyle's mouth went dry as he easily recognized the young, attractive man sitting across from Cordelia as the face Angel had sketched and given to Kate the previous day. This bastard had walked right into their office in the middle of the day and now sat innocently—and threateningly—across from Cordelia.

Doyle noted the heavy coat slung over the chair beside Penn, and didn't have to wonder how he got in. In any case, getting him out before he could break Cordelia's neck was of the utmost importance. Angel was asleep downstairs, but leaving Cordelia alone in order to alert Angel to the danger wasn't really an option. Doyle hoped Penn was merely in a toying mood, and not a murderous rage mood. It was daytime after all; most vampires waited until nightfall to do their worst.

Of course, Angelus hadn't been 'most vampires,' which meant there was no telling what Penn would do.

Doyle squared his shoulders, put on his best poker face and opened the door between the two offices as nonchalantly as half-humanly possible.

"So, she's more than just a professional relationship. He cares for her."

Penn finished his sentence and looked up at Doyle as he entered the room. Doyle could immediately see the change in Penn's demeanor—the nearly imperceptible flicker in his eye that recognized Doyle as an "other" like himself. And, yet, not "other" enough to be on the same side.

"Doyle, guess what? Kate sent us a new client." Cordelia said a little too enthusiastically from her place behind the front desk. There was definitely something off in her tone. "Wasn't that nice of her?"

Doyle kept himself moving, never taking his eyes off Penn, who in turn, never took his own eyes off Doyle. They were like two animals sizing each other up—Doyle knew it wouldn't take long before Penn figured out Doyle wasn't as dangerous as he was trying to appear. But, he hoped those precious moments would at least allow him to put a barrier between this psycho and Cordelia. He moved behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze, hoping he could communicate the danger of the situation to her, without giving up the entire game. He felt her go rigid beneath his touch, and didn't have time to wonder if it was because she understood, or simply because he was touching her without invitation.

"What kinda case is it?" Doyle asked, keeping his voice as smooth as possible, with a hint of cockiness underneath. It was his bluffing voice; pretending he had a pair of aces when all he had was a pair of twos. He kept himself prepared for any sudden movements from the vampire. At least now, he had about a 35% chance of being able to yank Cordelia to safety before Penn could kill her. It was better than the 0% chance he'd started with when he'd first entered the room. He applied more pressure to her shoulder, pulling both her and the chair back several inches. "Maybe ya could make our new client a fresh pot of coffee, love. Leave the case work to me."

Doyle suspected that Cordelia had already caught on to the imminent danger, but if she hadn't, she would completely lose her mind at his last statement. His goal was to get her out of the chair, so whether she did it in understanding or anger was fine with him.

"Do you like coffee?" She asked in a high, tight voice, abruptly shoving the chair back and nearly running over Doyle's foot in the process. She popped out of the seat and stepped back against the far wall behind the desk as Doyle pushed the chair back in, placing his body safely between Penn and Cordelia.

Not that "safely" was a word he would use in this context. In fact, he was anything but safe, and she was only marginally safer. Perhaps her odds had grown to 50%, if she was quick.

Penn hadn't moved, but it was clear the jig was up. "I take it she's yours, is that right? She doesn't belong to Angelus."

Doyle heard a small noise of objection emanate from Cordelia, but he paid her no mind, focusing the very righteous anger he felt at the vampire who was making Angel doubt himself. "That's right." Doyle declared, straightening up, trying to make himself seem bigger and taller. As if that could possibly intimidate this creature who could easily toss him aside without breaking a sweat and then feast on Cordelia before she had a chance of escaping. Doyle could mostly hold his own against the younger vampires, but the old ones were an entirely different story. Especially one as calculating and sadistic as this. "So you'd better just back off. Ya wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

"I highly doubt you're as formidable as the Incredible Hulk." Penn's lip curled into an amused smirk as he recognized the popular comic book catch phrase—apparently his choice of reading material wasn't nearly as stuffy as Angel's. Aside from the quirk of his lip, he made no other movement. "I can still kill her, you know. Make you watch as I drain the life out of her." Penn said evenly. He hadn't given any sign that he planned to move from the seat, probably taking for granted that he still had the upper hand. Clearly, he didn't know who he was dealing with.

Cordelia Chase was no vampire's fool.

"Wanna bet, Apt Pupil boy?!" Cordelia shouted, yanking up the blinds on the window behind the desk in one swift motion.

Doyle felt the heat of the sun on his back as the rays burst through the window, causing Penn to leap from the chair and stumble out of harm's way.

Lord, if Doyle wasn't already crazy in love with that woman, he certainly would be now. She'd likely just saved both of their hides with her quick thinking. You could take the girl out of Sunnydale, but you couldn't take the Sunnydale out of the girl.

He stepped back so he was shoulder to shoulder with Cordelia, both of them fully enveloped by the sunlight from the window.

"Clever girl." Penn remarked. "You and the mutt might just get to live... for now."

"More than I can say for you, buddy." Cordelia shot back. "Just wait'll Angel gets his hands on you."

"Angel." Penn repeated the word, testing it on his tongue and making a face that showed his general disapproval of what he heard.

"He has a soul now." Doyle explained bitingly. "He isn't playing your little games anymore. He _will_ kill ya."

Penn began to pace the floor, Doyle's words sparking his agitation. "Angelus may have found other interests, but he is my sire. Nothing can break that bond."

"Death can break it."

Angel's voice cut through the room like a knife. He stood in the doorway of his office with a stake in his hand. The wide stream of light from the window created a barrier between he and Penn, preventing him from stepping any further into the room, but his intentions were clear.

Penn's face contorted into something resembling a grotesque pout. "You would choose a human and a half-breed over your own blood?"

"I'd choose every human in this city over you." Angel replied without hesitation.

The movement that came next happened faster than Doyle could follow, which illustrated just how far in over his head he'd been when facing off alone with Penn. The coat that had been sitting idly on a chair no longer sat there. Penn retrieved it, threw it over his own head and was at the front door in little more than the blink of an eye. He paused only to address Angel. "You taught me how to deal with disappointments, Angelus. And no one has disappointed me more than you."

After uttering those ominous words, Penn disappeared into the outer lobby and the sunlight beyond. Angel stood frozen in place, eyes locked on the empty space Penn had previously occupied. Finally, he spoke gruffly, "It isn't safe for either of you to be here. Not until he's gone."

Angel turned around, stomping back toward his apartment below, leaving Doyle and Cordelia alone in the sun lit office.

Doyle turned to meet Cordelia's eyes and saw they were mirrors of his own—part relief of what they'd just survived, and part fear of what they would still have to face.

* * *

Doyle sat on Cordelia's couch, arms folded, brow furrowed, mouth turned down at the corners. A cup of battery acid Cordelia liked to call "coffee" sat untouched on the coffee table in front of him. She was in the kitchen, burning something. He thought she'd maybe said something about baking, but he didn't smell anything that could be mistaken for food.

This wasn't exactly how he'd expected the day to go. Sure, there was a point where he'd thought it'd be significantly worse—as in, him-standing-over-Cordelia's-lifeless-body-worse. But, now she was safe. And Doyle was safe.

Angel, on the other hand, was anything but safe.

And that bothered Doyle.

It hadn't been hard to find the address of Penn's lair. Angel's progeny had been playing the same tune for quite a while, and he didn't feel the need to change it up, so finding him simply meant doing research into the last time Penn had visited Los Angeles. The bad news was, it seemed like he was inspired to change things up this time.

Angel had been halfway to the parking garage when Doyle and Cordelia had breathlessly caught up with him, pointing out that he couldn't very well drive across town in the sunlight. And driving with a coat over his head wasn't a great option, as far as options went. Since Angel had ordered the two of them to leave the office for the time being, it only made sense they'd go with him—safety in numbers, after all.

Angel hadn't liked the plan, but he'd had little choice but to accept. Or he _wouldn't_ have had another choice if Wesley hadn't pulled up on his bike at that particular moment.

 _Wesley_. Just thinking about that ponce made Doyle's teeth grind.

Angel had ordered Wesley into the driver's seat of his car and banished Doyle off to Cordelia's apartment. He said it was because Penn had already seen Doyle; it was safer to have someone Penn couldn't readily identify behind the wheel. Maybe it made sense, from a logical standpoint, but that didn't mean it didn't bother Doyle to be sidelined.

Under normal circumstances, he had no problem spending time with Cordelia. It wasn't the first time Angel had ordered him to take her someplace safe and look out for her, and he usually preferred that job to the more life-threatening alternative. But this was the first time that he'd been sent to hide, while someone else played Angel's wingman. The last time with the Kungai demon hadn't really counted, since that had been Doyle's idea in the first place—he hadn't wanted to leave Cordelia with Wesley when he thought Wesley might move in on his territory. Now that he actually knew Wesley, well... it kind of stung to be left behind. Especially since he suspected that Angel was protecting Doyle as much as he was protecting Cordelia—as if, Doyle needed protecting! Wasn't it his job to protect Angel? Wasn't that the whole reason he'd been saved from the Beacon in the first place?

"Are you still pouting out here?" Cordelia's voice snapped him back to the here and now. He looked up at her as she entered the room, placing a heaping plate of charcoal on the coffee table beside the undrinkable coffee. Okay, so the charcoal might have been... cookies? He really, really hoped he wouldn't be forced to eat one of them to find out. His day had already been lousy enough.

"I'm not pouting." Doyle grumbled, leaning forward on the edge of the couch.

"You are too." She said, taking the seat beside him. Her closeness sent an involuntary wave of warmth through his body. Okay, so maybe being "ordered" to stay by Cordelia's side wasn't the worst thing Angel could do to him. If he wasn't so worried about the big guy, maybe he could even enjoy it. He wanted to enjoy it.

Cordelia was staring at him with a look that told him she wasn't born yesterday. "Wesley isn't replacing you." She said, not unkindly. " _As if_ that could ever happen."

"That's entirely the problem." Doyle said defensively. "That guy's barely capable of entering a room without falling over his own feet. How's he supposed to back up Angel?"

"He did okay when we saved you from the eye-stealing-auction thingie." She pointed out.

"Yeah, he got by." Doyle agreed grudgingly. "But, this is different, darlin'. It's more than just a physical battle for Angel this time."

"I noticed." She admitted. "That Penn guy—he really gets inside Angel's head and stuff."

"That he does." Doyle agreed glumly. "I've been tryin' to remind Angel, the past is the past. Blaming himself for something he did two centuries ago won't help. Guy's head is thicker than mine. Didn't think that was possible."

"You're a really loyal friend, Doyle." Cordelia observed, with a surprising amount of compassion in her voice. Doyle looked up to meet her eyes, but was surprised at the cool detachment with which she continued her next thought. "But, you've never met Angelus."

Doyle swallowed hard. He knew she'd seen that other side of Angel that he had only ever read about. It didn't mean he was fooling himself into thinking it wasn't real and it wasn't ugly; but it could never be the same as seeing it for yourself. "You had the pleasure, yeah?"

She flinched microscopically at his words, and he regretted the insensitive phrasing. She, however, had no problem spelling it out for him. As was her way. " _He_ had the pleasure. Of being sadistic and cruel and violent. But his real specialty was the whole psychological torture thing—it was like an art to him... Buffy got the worst of it, of course, but there were a lot of us in Sunnydale who were affected by what he did. Not to mention who he killed."

Doyle couldn't rip his eyes away from her, even though he wanted to. He wanted to run away from her words. Push the idea of Angel's body and face and voice torturing Cordelia and her friends out of his mind. Then it occurred to him, she had been by Doyle's side, defending Angel against Wesley's accusations. Insisting that he was good now.

"You've seen Angel at his worst and you're still here... gotta tell ya, love, that's mighty impressive as far as the loyalty department goes."

"That wasn't Angel." She clarified. "That's what you don't get. You talk about Angelus like he's the past, but he's not. Angelus is a completely different animal and he's not gone, he's just...I dunno, sleeping or whatever. Anyway, I know the difference between the two."

"More than he does, I'd imagine." Doyle remarked, impressed with her assessment of Angel's duel persona. Doyle had thought he'd had it right all along, but maybe he'd missed a significant point. One that Cordelia had now made abundantly clear. Angelus wasn't Angel's past. He was something that lived in Angel—something that Angel still lived with.

"I've also seen Angel at his best, y'know." She said with an encouraging smile. "Thanks to you." She reached out and touched Doyle's leg, squeezing it affectionately to emphasize her point. To say it didn't succeed would be a bald faced lie. His heart pounded erratically in his chest as he listened to the most meaningful words he'd ever heard fall from Cordelia's lips. "You inspired him to start this whole thing—to fight the good fight. To make up for all the darkness in the world, by providing a little hope. To _have_ hope. You're his best friend… And in case you hadn't noticed, the guy really puts the _lone_ in loner—I don't think he's ever had a friend like you that he didn't kill and turn into a vampire, and I don't think those count."

In that moment, in between all the typical Cordelia-speak, he saw echoes of the other Cordelia. The one who had turned the space-time continuum upside down to keep Doyle fighting by Angel's side. Maybe he was starting to finally understand how all the pieces fit together just so.

Doyle had lost the power of speech, so swept up in the power of her words. But he forced himself to add one qualifier to what she'd said. "And a friend like you, Princess. He has us both."

"Yeah, he does, doesn't he?" Her smile lit up the room as she agreed with him. Happy to be included in their swiftly formed family unit. "So I guess he should thank you for convincing him to hire me. And he should thank me for convincing him to turn a profit, right?" She teased lightly.

He finally swallowed away the lump in his throat, and allowed her smile to lift his spirits, as it so often did. "I might've had selfish reasons for that one, darlin'…"

"I figured." She said, laughing easily before looking up at him through her eyelashes. "Feel better now?"

"Yeah." He affirmed. "Ya do have a remarkable way of doing that."

"Good." She chirped, turning toward the overflowing plate she'd placed on the coffee table. Her eyes were bright as she lifted the plate and held it out for him. "Because it's time you tried one of my cookies."


	10. Somnambulist, Pt 4

**"Somnambulist," Part IV**

Angel stared out into the dark horizon, taking in the twinkling city lights around him. He sometimes found peace in the chaos of the city, but not tonight.

Penn was dead. Kate had killed him after all. And she'd left Angel standing—albeit, with a 2x4 sticking out of his chest.

He should feel relieved, elated even. It was a victory for the good guys in more ways than one. There'd be no more blood on his hands via Penn. There'd be no witch hunt courtesy of Kate. His friends were downstairs, as safe as two non-immortals could ever be in this line of work.

Yet, there was a part of him that mourned Penn. A part of him that couldn't simply forget the feelings that had surfaced in Penn's presence… or, far worse, the feelings that had surfaced in the dreams they'd shared. They'd reminded Angel who he was and what he was capable of.

Angel could smell Doyle's scent on the air, even before the other man exited the stairwell to join Angel on the rooftop. Doyle approached silently, placing a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the embrasure beside where Angel stood. Doyle leaned against it, following Angel's gaze into the distance.

"All yours. Direct from my secret stash." He said after a minute, gesturing to the bottle. "I've already used it to numb the bone-crunching, mind splitting vision I just had."

Angel shifted his eyes briefly in Doyle's direction, seeing the pain and exhaustion that lingered as the result of his messenger duties. He watched as Doyle retrieved a post-it from his pocket, placing it beside the bottle. "That goes with it, I'm afraid. New job."

Angel reached for the slip of paper, but instead of reading it, he turned his focus back over the cityscape. "I was just thinking about how much this place is like where I grew up."

"Right, yeah. I could see that." Doyle said agreeably, before tilting his head in mild amusement. "Except for the cars, and the buildings and, y'know, everything else."

"It's not so different." Angel remarked, more to himself than to Doyle. "People moving through their lives. I wonder if anything ever really changes."

Doyle leaned his elbows against the edge of the roof, watching the cars go by on the street below. "Sure it does. They do." He lifted his head, turning has gaze back on Angel. "You have. Those dreams ya had… they weren't even yours, man. They didn't mean anything."

"But I enjoyed them."

Doyle shifted his weight uncomfortably, "Well, it'd probably be okay if ya never mentioned that part ever again, yeah?"

"It's still in me, Doyle." Angel heard himself confess. Saying the words didn't lift the burden, but Doyle's non-reaction was a small comfort in and of itself.

"Sure, it's in ya. We all have something." Doyle admitted. "But, it's not all that's there. You're not him, man. Not anymore. The Powers That Be didn't send me to find Angelus. These messages I get aren't addressed to him." Doyle said motioning to his head. "They're for you. _Angel_. That's who ya are now."

Angel still couldn't look at Doyle, but instead stared down at the hastily scribbled post-it note in his hands. "Yeah?"

"The Powers, they know the difference. So do I. Even Cordelia knows, if ya can believe that. She's actually the one who helped me better understand it." Doyle said with a chuckle. "See, people really do change… and I should know, having changed quite a bit myself."

Angel heard the twinge of regret in Doyle's last sentence, implying that his own changes hadn't been for the better—at least, not all of them. "Yes, they do." Angel said, finally moving toward Doyle. "And sometimes they change _back_." Directing that statement to Doyle meant one thing, but applying it to himself meant another. "If the day ever comes that I—."

"Don't say it, man." Doyle interrupted, eyes twinkling with humor. "How 'bout I just promise to keep ya properly miserable so there is no changing, yeah?"

Angel smiled in spite of himself. "Thanks."

"Hey, don't mention it, man. What are friends for?"

* * *

"So, you over that whole, 'what if I'm still Angelus' thing?"

Angel looked up as Cordelia plopped herself into the chair across from him. She'd asked the question with all the emotion of someone asking if he'd cleaned his gutters recently. Angel had been sitting back in his chair, feet up on the desk, trying to fill his brain with the words of one of his favorite authors. Something to filter out the chaos of the last few days and make him feel as close to human as he ever could. Or, at least make him feel like less of a monster. He glanced over his shoulder, noting that the outer office was empty. Doyle was nowhere in sight, which was probably why he was now faced with a very inquisitive-looking Cordelia.

"Uh…" Angel didn't know how to respond to her question, therefore he didn't try. "Is there something I can do for you, Cordelia?"

"I need advice." She confessed, worrying her lower lip in very un-Cordelia-like fashion.

Angel sighed to himself, closing the book in his lap and removing his feet from the desk, so he could turn his chair to face her more directly. "Wouldn't you... um...prefer talking to Doyle?"

His question caused a tinge of color to rush to her cheeks. Something Angel wouldn't have seen if he wasn't overly conscious of her blood flow. "I can't talk to Doyle because this is _about_ Doyle."

Angel had to smile at that, but he kept it muted for her sake. This wasn't the first conversation they'd had on the subject. "About you and Doyle?"

"I guess... I mean, the thing is..." She stumbled over her words, which was something unusual for her. Angel was used to sitting quietly while she did most of the talking. Prompting her wasn't exactly his forte.

"You're in love with him."

Cordelia gave a little gasp at his blunt admission of what she was supposedly feeling. "Angel! What is wrong with you?! You're not supposed to say out loud something that the advice-seeker is not able to say out loud themselves. That's not how this whole confiding thing works. You're just supposed to smile and nod and then..." She flipped into a more pleading tone. "Tell me what to do about it?"

Angel smiled and nodded as instructed. The smile was, in fact, genuine. It was actually pretty endearing that she basically had just admitted she was in love with Doyle, without ever having admitted it.

Cordelia pouted. "You're terrible at this, you know that? I wish I _could_ talk to Doyle. He's really good at giving advice. He really listens and I know he's not just smiling and nodding because it's what he's supposed to do."

"I'm really listening." Angel said defensively. He sat back in his chair and opened his hands as if to say the answer was obvious. "You should tell him how you feel."

She gave him a look that told him she wasn't impressed with his technique. "Got anything else?" She huffed out a breath and then leaned forward, placing her hands on the front of his desk. "I've tried to tell him. I mean, I've thought about it…" She moaned. "I can't."

"Okay, how about you just start with flattery." He suggested. "I think the insults can come off as, um…y'know… insulting."

"Flattery. I can do that." She said, sitting up straighter and squaring her shoulders. "Depending on what he's wearing on any given day. Some of his wardrobe makes me think he's just _asking_ to be insulted. Like he's waving an ugly red bowling shirt in front of a fashion-savvy bull, y'know?"

"I'm sure you can find something you like about him." Angel remarked understatedly.

"Sure... There was that time I told him I didn't want his eyes to get cut out of his head because they're his best feature. Totally complimentary."

"That's a start." Angel said. "Try more of that."

"And, you think if I do that, he'll ask me out already?" She asked hopefully.

"He might… or, you could just tell him how you feel." Angel tried again.

"Broken record, much?" She gulped audibly and tilted her head at him. "Do I have to?"

"He's not going to reject you, Cordelia. There's nothing to be afraid of." Angel assured her.

"Of course, there is! Everything will change. Right now, he's my friend, Doyle. Kinda pervy, maybe, but generally speaking, safe and dependable. If I tell him how I feel, then BAM! Goodbye safety, hello danger zone." She said clapping her hands together to emphasize her point. "It's like giving him a license to hurt me."

"But he won't." Angel gently insisted.

"You don't know that." Cordelia maintained. "Look at you and Buffy. Think of all the times you've hurt each other. You're _still_ hurting each other and you're nowhere near each other."

Angel swallowed the lump in his throat as he thought about how right Cordelia was about that. He knew better than anyone how painful love could be. He'd experienced every kind of pain imaginable, and there was nothing that cut deeper than love. "That may be true, but I'd never take it back, Cordelia. When you find someone you can love like that... the hurt that could potentially come with it is worth the risk." He paused, observing her as she continued to chew her lip nervously. "Is this about Xander?" He asked hesitantly, knowing how much vitriol could potentially pour out of her at the mere mention of her ex's name. "Because Doyle isn't Xander."

"Pssh, Xander. I'd take that back in a heartbeat. It was _so_ not worth it." She waved her hand dismissively, but then he could see the fear pooling within her eyes as she continued. "Doyle _isn't_ Xander. It would hurt way more."

Angel gave her a sympathetic nod. She wasn't wrong. He could see that. Even with Cordelia fighting Doyle every step of the way, he'd gotten under her skin. He'd made himself a part of her life in a way that completed her, without her being consciously aware of it. And vice versa. It was already too late—it would already hurt them both, if things didn't work out between them. That's exactly why they were both so scared to take the plunge. "What if you never get to tell him how you feel? What if he was suddenly gone one day... wouldn't you regret never taking the chance? Never knowing what you could've had if you hadn't let fear get in the way?"

Those words seemed to strike a chord. She nodded reflexively, before allowing her facial features to crumple. "Oh God." She said, doubling over in dramatic fashion. "I feel like I'm going to throw up."

"It's definitely worth it then." Angel replied, a small smile visible on his face now that she wasn't looking at him to see it.

"Okay." She mumbled into her lap. "You're right. I know you're right because it's probably what I'd tell me to do if I wasn't me and I didn't feel like I was going to barf all over your floor."

"Good." Angel said, still smiling down at her. "That's really good." Then, after a moment's thought. "You're not really going to throw up on the floor, right?"

* * *

Cordelia could feel her heart racing madly as she made her way through the lobby on her search for Doyle. She wasn't sure where he'd gone, but suspected he might've stepped out front for a cigarette. He always tried to hide it from her, but it wasn't like she didn't know. In any case, he hadn't said goodbye for the evening, so he was likely still somewhere close by.

After her talk with Angel, Cordelia felt like she couldn't waste another moment. Like she had to find him and immediately tell him how she felt before she lost her nerve. Because the question Angel had asked… how would she feel if she was never able to tell him? Well, that had answered everything she needed to know. The thought of _never_ telling him was terrifying; more so than actually just taking a deep breath and letting it all come out. She had been operating under the false impression that she had all the time in the world to wait and see if she wanted to date Doyle, but then he'd almost died, more than once. And in their line of work, it may happen for real someday. God help her, she didn't want that someday to come before she had a chance to really be with him. In every way.

She pushed open the heavy front door that she so rarely exited by herself, and felt the cool, night air hit her bare arms. That was L.A. for you, hot all day, but as soon as the sun went down, you'd catch a chill if you didn't have a sweater. It didn't matter, she was expecting that she'd be warm soon enough…if things went the way she imagined they would.

She had barely stepped out the front door when she saw him. Them, actually. Silhouetted by the nearby streetlamp. Doyle and his ex-wife, Harriet.

Kissing.

A wave of nausea hit her, but this one was nothing like the one she'd experienced in Angel's office. This one burned and twisted, and brought with it an even colder feeling against her skin than the air itself. Her eyes had already blurred over with tears as she retreated back inside.

Which is why she wasn't there to see Doyle place his hands on Harriet's shoulders and gently push her away, a nervous laugh escaping from his lips.

Harry's eyes went wide and her skin turned a bright pink. "Oh, God… I shouldn't have done that." She clapped a hand over her mouth, backing another step away from him. "Francis… I'm sorry. That was…"

He stood dumbly, trying to figure out how they had gone from talking about the past to… well, _reliving it_. He hadn't expected it, that's for sure. Judging by Harry's reaction, even she hadn't expected it. And she was the one who'd initiated it.

Things had been going so well up until that point. Better than well. All Doyle's worries about spending time with Harriet had gone by the wayside. He found that it was way less painful to talk with her alone, in-person, than he had originally imagined. In fact, it felt kind of good. Kind of comforting that after everything that had happened, they could still connect. Still find a place for each other in the present tense. They didn't have to be strangers.

And then she'd kissed him.

A kiss. Brief as it was, it was still a kiss. One minute they'd been talking and the next minute, Harry's lips had met his, and yeah… he'd kissed her back. It was instinct, after all. A familiar pair of lips land on yours, you're bound to kiss them back. Luckily, his brain hadn't completely shut down, and he'd stopped it before it could turn into anything more than, "A mistake." He finished for her. "Yeah?"

Harry said nothing for a moment, finally dropping her hand and nodding slowly. "I'm so sorry." She repeated.

"Ya already said that." He pointed out quietly. He wasn't sure what else to say. A lot of things chased through his brain. He could be angry at her for leading him on, or plead with her to kiss him again, or simply reject her on principle. He didn't really want to do any of those things. The truth was, the kiss had just made him feel sad… and maybe _relieved_?

Sad, because the kiss was confirmation that what they'd once had was long gone. Sure, a spark still remained—old and familiar—it'd likely never go away. Just as their memories of how in love they had once been would never go away. But that single spark would never grow into the flame they'd once had. And that was exactly why he was also relieved—because one of the reasons he'd been able to push her away so easily was the knowledge that he'd rather be kissing someone else.

"That wasn't fair to you." She admitted, her voice laced with apologies. "It wasn't fair to either one of us. I don't know what got into me. Honestly, I came to see you tonight because I really did just want to talk. Maybe I got a bit… nostalgic?"

"Nostalgic, huh?" He remarked, not quite ready to laugh about it yet. "Ya coulda just brought along a photo album. Laughed at some of my more questionable hairstyle choices."

"If you don't want to talk anymore, I'd understand. But, I swear to you, Francis. That's not going to happen a second time. Okay?"

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "Believe it or not, Harry, I think I get it."

"You do?" She asked, clearly surprised he was being so reasonable about things.

"Sure." He admitted, slipping his hands into his back pockets, and leaning back on his left leg. "You're still reeling from the whole Richard thing. Y'thought you were gonna marry the guy, thought he was _forever_ and now he's gone. Standing here, talking to me… I'm thinking it was real easy to direct some of that at me, seeing how I was the first guy who made ya feel that way."

"Wow." She said, eyebrows raised in astonishment. "That was… incredibly insightful, Francis."

He made a disappointed face. "You're surprised? Weren't ya always telling me I was good at readin' people?"

"I did. You were." Harry agreed. "And then one day you lost all ability to read me… so, yeah, maybe I'm a little surprised to see you've got it back. And glad, for that matter. Maybe it means you're finally healing."

Doyle silently debated with himself. He was finding it easier than he thought to open up to Harry again. There was comfort in familiarity, he supposed. Even though they were entirely different people now, than they'd been years before, the core elements of who they were remained intact. "It's taken a long while. But, I do think I'm finally finding my way back."

Harry eyed him curiously and then a slow smile spread across her face. "Oh my God. You've been holding out on me."

He wrinkled his brow in confusion, not sure what exactly she had gleaned from his admission.

"Here I am, still crying over Richard and hogging up the entire conversation…" She swatted his arm lightly. "You met someone. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Ah…" He looked away from her, suddenly very interested in the glow of the streetlamp up above. "Not much to tell, I'm afraid."

Now it was Harry's turn to look confused. "So, you haven't met someone?"

"I have." He revealed, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. "She's really something. Only trouble is we're not exactly dating as of yet. I'm still working on that part."

Harry was now wearing a wide smile, she reached out once again, but instead of swatting him, she squeezed his arm affectionately. "Whoever she is, she'd be lucky to have you, Francis. Stop screwing around and ask her out already."

He couldn't help chuckling at the absurdity of the situation. In the span of five minutes, his ex-wife had gone from kissing him unexpectedly to encouraging him to ask another woman out. Talk about emotional whiplash.

"So, we're okay, then, right?" Harry asked, hopefully. "We can keep going with this 'let's be friends' thing and never speak of my very unfortunate and temporary loss of sanity."

He gave her a half-smile, still feeling that twinge of sadness that now seemed to be permanently attached to his feelings for her. "Your secret's safe with me, love."

She smiled up at him, and he thought he could see traces of that same sadness in her eyes, too. "I was really worried about you last time we saw each other. I didn't think you were… " She cut herself off, rethinking whatever she'd been about to say. "I'm just really glad you're doing better."

"Ya took me by surprise last time, Harry." Doyle explained. "I wasn't expectin' to have ya waltz back into my life with another guy on your arm. I'll be truthful, I looked at ya, and all I could see is who we used to be, not who we are now." She nodded along silently as he continued. "All I could think about was how much it hurt to lose what we'd had. I never stopped to realize that it'd been gone a long time already. That it was time to let it go."

"And now you're ready to let go." She stated wistfully.

He nodded in reply, and then spontaneously reached out to pull her into a hug. Her arms came up around him, and she gladly hugged him back tightly.

"Y'know what?" He mumbled into her curls. "I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."


	11. Expecting, Pt 1

**"Expecting," Part I**

Cordelia touched up her lipstick using the darkened office window. She looked hot. No doubt about it.

Too bad she didn't care. Like, at all.

Well, maybe she was excited to be wearing her new shoes. She'd saved up for months to buy them and they were every bit as adorable on her feet as she imagined they would be. But aside from that…

Sarina had been trying to set Cordelia up for weeks with some big-deal photographer guy. And Cordelia had made excuse after excuse, hoping that eventually she'd just be able to tell Sarina she was no longer on the market. It had seemed pretty inevitable for a while. Now she knew that wasn't going to be the case—there was no longer any reason to make excuses. So, she'd accepted Sarina's latest invitation. Tonight Cordelia would be going out with one, Wilson Christopher, who, in addition to being a really great catch, may even be able to help jumpstart her career. Sometimes when one badly-dressed door closed, a rich and handsome window of opportunity opened.

It didn't feel that way, though. She still wanted the stupid door.

She felt like she was walking around with an abscess in her chest, and she was trying to fill it with something that would never fit properly. That space had been carved out for someone specific, and now that she'd missed her chance with him… she swallowed heavily, trying to push away that weighty feeling of regret. She couldn't wallow; that would do her no good. She had to look at the bright side—it was better she found out that Doyle was still into his ex-wife, _before_ she started dating him.

A low whistle behind her, caused her to jump and she ended up with a smear of red lipstick across her cheek.

"Sorry, darlin'. Didn't mean to startle ya." Doyle said apologetically. "It's just…ya look _fantastic_. Are those new shoes?"

"Now I look like The Joker." She grumbled back, as she stared at her less-than-perfect reflection. She grabbed a wad of tissue from her purse and began wiping the lipstick from her face.

"Ah, The Joker's got nothing on you." He commented appreciatively. A moment passed and she heard a hint of uneasiness creep into his voice. "I thought ya said it was a ladies night out."

"It is." She lied. Okay, so she hadn't told him she was going to meet another guy. It's not like he'd told her anything about his rekindled relationship with Harriet either. And, as far as Cordelia could tell, there was no reason they should tell each other anything of the sort. His love life was his own business, as was hers. Co-workers weren't obligated to share details of their personal lives.

Also… maybe she didn't want him to know. Once upon a time, she would have enjoyed rubbing it in his face—making sure he knew what he was missing out on. But, for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to do that tonight. She just wanted to exit the premises as quickly as possible, before she had time to think about what he'd be doing while she was out distracting herself with someone who wasn't him.

"I see. Ya ladies like to one-up each other, is that it?" Doyle chuckled, still not taking his adoring eyes off her. "I can't imagine anyone being able to top you, Princess."

His compliments were killing her. Why did he have to act like he still adored her, when his heart was so clearly elsewhere? He shouldn't be staring at her like that. He shouldn't be flirting. Was that just how he was? Had it never meant anything in the first place?

Angel entered the room, saving her from another loaded moment alone with Doyle. He proceeded directly to the filing cabinet. "You look nice." He said offhandedly as he opened a drawer and started flipping through the hanging folders. It wasn't long before his eyebrows did their furrowing thing. "Uh… Cordelia? Do you know why Mrs. Benson is filed under P?"

"Pretty sure that's an R." Doyle offered, balancing himself on the corner of Cordelia's desk as he usually did when he wasn't planted on the couch.

"It's an F." She corrected, opening her top desk drawer and pulling out a pair of spare earrings. She was glad she'd kept them in there for emergencies; this outfit definitely required earrings.

"Okay…" Angel said, looking at her questioningly. "Why is she filed under F, then?"

"Because she's from _France_." Cordelia answered as if that was the most sensible thing in the world. "Remember what a pain she was?"

"Yeah, it made me wanna drink a lot." Doyle muttered.

"How unlike everything else." Cordelia retorted sarcastically, turning back to the window to take in her appearance one last time. She could see Doyle behind her in the reflection, he looked bothered by her last comment. Well, it was true. That wasn't her being mean, that was her being honest. If she hadn't said it, then he definitely would've known something was wrong. Which there wasn't, because why would anything be wrong?

Oh, God. She was definitely losing her mind. She needed to leave now before she started baiting him into an argument out of sheer habit.

She was actually relieved when Wesley stumbled into the office wielding a ridiculously large axe, and an even ridiculously larger puzzle box.

"Hello all. I was just in the neighborhood, patrolling with my new Bavarian fighting axe, when I suddenly thought 'perhaps Doyle has had a vision,' perhaps you need my help in the battle against evil." Wesley said, barely aware of the fact that no one was paying him any attention.

"We seem to be evil free at the moment." Angel responded, head still buried in the filing cabinet.

"And my skull is thankful for that." Doyle added, placing a hand on his temple.

Wesley held up the box in his hand. "I also packed along a 'Word Puzzle 3-D' if any of you has the nerve to take me on."

Doyle's smirk quickly morphed into a look of bewilderment. "On second thought, the night's still young, evil might come through for us after all."

"Gee, Wesley, I'd love to, but unlike you, I'm not in my 80s yet." Cordelia replied disinterestedly, turning around just as Sarina and Emily appeared in the office doorway. "I have plans."

Wesley's face paled at the sight of the two beautiful young women Cordelia was palling around with. Sarina gave Wesley a quick once over. "Hi, I'm Sarina. Nice axe."

Wesley laughed awkwardly and was obviously flustered, "Uh, ah, no… this old thing?" He swung the axe over his shoulder and planted it directly into the wall behind him. Smooth.

Cordelia and Doyle both snickered, exchanging a knowing glance… and then Cordelia realized what she was doing and stepped away from Doyle to join her friends near the doorway. She shouldn't be sharing glances with him, at Wesley's expense or not. She shouldn't be sharing anything with him, aside from office space.

"So, how do I look?" She asked her girlfriends, trying to focus on anything other than the feeling of Doyle's eyes raking over her from behind, which she was well aware they were doing.

"Like you always do." Sarina said approvingly. "Wilson won't be able to take his eyes off you."

Uh oh.

"Who's Wilson?" Doyle asked, getting up from his place on the side of the desk and moving a little closer to the three women.

Cordelia had been struck dumb. She opened her mouth to say _something_ , but Sarina was already filling in the blanks before Cordelia could utter a sound. "Wilson Christopher. The fashion photographer. He's been dying to meet Cordelia, and tonight's his lucky night."

Doyle's expression had clouded over as he listened to Sarina's words; he looked as if someone had punched him in the gut. Which, subsequently, was exactly how Cordelia had felt when she'd seen him kissing his ex-wife the other night. As he shifted his eyes directly toward her, they seemed to change color, becoming an even paler shade of green. He had that look about him, like a puppy that had just been kicked repeatedly. He looked… wounded. "You're goin' on a date?"

She hated that look. It did things to her that it shouldn't. She wanted to stay with him. She wanted to be with him. And he was the one who had ruined it! Now he had the audacity to look like she was somehow hurting him?

He had one hell of a nerve!

Which is exactly why she took a very deep breath, and reached for that familiar armor that she'd been foolish to cast aside in the first place. "Of course, I'm going on a date." Cordelia said coolly. "Why wouldn't I? I'm single. And so's Wilson Christopher, one of _the_ most eligible bachelors in town. Maybe it was meant to be."

She hadn't thought it was possible for him to look more wounded than he already did, but he proved her wrong. She may as well have taken a knife to his chest from the looks of things.

"It was totally meant to be." Sarina squealed from beside her. "I'm telling you, you two are perfect for each other!"

Angel had long since stopped inspecting the filing cabinet and had come to stand silently behind Doyle.

Emily who hadn't spoken yet, gave Doyle an appreciative once-over and then shifted her eyes to Angel doing much the same. "I think I know why you like this job, Cordelia."

Cordelia rolled her eyes and was about to hustle her friends out the door before they could say anything else to make this any more uncomfortable for her, when Doyle stumbled back a step, grabbing at his forehead. Luckily, Angel was close enough to catch him, before he landed on the floor. Cordelia, without even realizing what she was doing, had jumped forward to catch his other arm. Not that Angel couldn't have held him up on his own, but she had gotten accustomed to being there for Doyle when the visions hit. To soothe him through them—which is exactly what she did now, reflexively reaching out to smooth some of his hair back from his temple, as he doubled over, groaning in agony.

"Uh… is he okay?" Emily asked worriedly.

"He has… a seizure disorder." Wesley stammered in explanation, leaning awkwardly against his axe, which was still stuck in the wall. "It's not as serious as it looks."

"Well, that's good because it _looks_ like his brain is about to ooze out of his ears." Emily observed.

"Is it gonna stop soon?" Sarina asked unsympathetically. "We're gonna be late."

Cordelia was barely listening to her friends, all her attention focused on Doyle's strained features. Then as quickly as it had begun, it was over. His body went slack, and she felt him lean into Angel's grip, allowing the vampire to bare his weight almost entirely.

"Let's get him to the couch." Angel directed her, even though, Cordelia was doing little else aside from keeping her hand on Doyle's shoulder. Still, she moved along with Angel as he brought Doyle to the couch and eased him into a seated position. Once seated, Doyle hunched himself forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and using his hands to hold his throbbing head.

"You're okay." She heard herself murmur to Doyle in a muted voice, finally removing her hand from his person. He didn't look up at her, but shook his head ever so slightly.

Angel looked up at her and then over to the two women near the doorway who looked vaguely horrified by what they had just witnessed. "I've got him, Cordelia."

"So… can we go now?" Sarina's caustic voice was like a bullhorn in the quiet room.

"You should go." Angel said quietly, and Cordelia could swear she saw disapproval on his face. She wasn't sure what that was all about.

She looked down at Doyle's hunched form, wondering if he would say anything. If he asked her not to leave, she was pretty certain she wouldn't. Mostly because she already didn't want to go. He seemed unusually quiet after this last vision. His recovery time seemed delayed and it was worrying her. But, then she had a brief flash of him going home to Harriet tonight; she pictured Harry taking him into her arms and soothing his pain away. As her stomach twisted at the mental imagery she'd painted for herself, she began to slowly back away from him.

"Okay." Cordelia turned and nodded Sarina and Emily toward the door. "He'll be fine. Let's go."

Emily looked back at Doyle with a pout. "There's always something wrong with the cute ones."

"C'mon, girls. It's time to party!" Sarina whooped as she led the procession out of the office. Cordelia gave one final, hesitant glance back at Doyle who had yet to raise his head from his hands. Squaring her shoulders, she followed her friends out the door, reminding herself that Doyle _would_ be fine. He always was.

Once they were gone, Wesley closed the door behind them and turned to face Doyle and Angel. Doyle, who had been hunched over on the couch, finally sat up as the front door clicked shut. His eyes were glassy, and his face flushed. Angel was still standing beside him and now he placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"Not particularly." Doyle grumbled.

Angel said nothing at that, smart enough not to push. If Doyle wanted to talk about it. He'd talk.

Doyle stared at the floorboards in front of him as he rattled off the details of his vision without much inflection in his voice. "Buncha giant demon eggs about to hatch on the other side of town. Shouldn't be too much trouble, assumin' we get there before the hatching bit."

"I can do it alone." Angel said gently, patting Doyle on the shoulder and moving toward the desk to grab a pad. "Just write down the address."

Wesley observed Doyle's demeanor, seeing that the other man was far from up to the task of hunting anything tonight. Whether it was the physical pain of the vision or something else entirely, he seemed more drained than usual. Usually quick with the jokes and the mischievous grins, Doyle now sat motionless, clearly distracted. He scribbled the address down as Angel instructed, and then moved toward Cordelia's desk, retrieving himself a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer, unscrewing the cap and taking a sizable chug straight from the bottle.

That couldn't actually _help_ his headache, could it?

Wesley suspected it wasn't actually the vision headache that was troubling Doyle. No, his pain seemed far more personal in nature. It didn't take much guesswork on Wesley's part—he'd never inquired as to the exact nature of Doyle's relationship with Cordelia, but he had eyes. He knew he'd walked in on something rather intimate between them his first night in town. In fact, until this evening, he had sort of assumed they were an item, albeit a fairly untraditional one. It was a surprise to Wesley to see Cordelia on her way out to date another man. And, apparently, it was a surprise to Doyle as well.

"I know you could probably slay this creature on your own, but perhaps, I could accompany you… for research purposes." Wesley blurted out, eager to make himself useful to Angel and his team. "You never know when a rogue demon hunter such as myself may be called upon for a similar task."

Angel was on his way to the door, he didn't even pause as he handed Wesley the slip of paper with the address. "Bring the axe."

Wesley beamed, and turned back toward Doyle who was quietly observing from across the room, bottle of whiskey in hand. "Would you…care for the word puzzle?"

Doyle gave Wesley a pained expression before slinking into Angel's office and slamming the door behind him.

"A simple no would suffice." Wesley muttered to the now empty room. He spun around to grab the axe handle and yanked once, twice, three times before it came free from the wall…and sent him hurdling backwards to the ground, where he landed in a heap.


	12. Expecting, Pt 2

**"Expecting," Part II**

Cordelia toyed with the small paper umbrella in her drink. Wilson was sitting close to her on the couch, his arm slung around the back, just barely brushing her shoulders. He was everything Sarina had described—tall, dark, handsome, charming and successful. Not to mention, he had spent the last hour asking her question after question about herself. Normally she would have given anything to have this kind of man take so much interest in her; tonight she was too distracted to care. Her mouth still worked just fine, but her brain kept drifting off to focus on a certain Irish co-worker of hers.

She wondered if he was feeling better after his vision.

The last question Wilson had asked was about her job, which meant it didn't take much for her to drift back into Doyle-land. She had been a breath away from describing his entire hideous wardrobe in detail, when Wilson moved closer and brushed his thumb against her bare shoulder.

"You're so beautiful." He whispered. "I know It's forward of me, but…I'm dying to kiss you right now."

Boy, were they on different wavelengths. She gave a short burst of nervous laughter and pushed him backwards, to regain a bit more personal space. Placing her untouched drink down on the table beside her, she turned toward him apologetically. "You know what? I don't think I can do this. I'm sorry." She sighed. "I don't want to waste any more of your time."

Wilson sat back, clearly not used to being rejected so easily. She expected annoyance, but instead, what she got was a considerate smile. "You recently broke up with someone, is that right? You're still hung up on the other guy."

"It wasn't a breakup." Cordelia admitted faster than she had intended to. "More of a non-starter. I don't really wanna talk about it."

Wilson nodded at that, placing his own drink down on the table beside hers. "Tell me this—will it make you feel any better if you leave the club and go sit at home alone? Or, is there a small chance that a few drinks, good music and some decent company could help? Because, personally, I think you should give the latter a try." He smiled kindly at her, lifting her drink off the table and handing it back to her. "I mean, how can you be sad when there's a little paper umbrella in your drink?"

He had a point. Paper umbrellas were pretty fun.

She took the drink back from Wilson's hand and returned the smile. "I guess I could stick around for a bit longer. It might help keep my mind off Doyle." She was surprised she'd said his name out loud, but then she figured there really was no harm in telling Wilson the truth. He didn't know Doyle, and he seemed to be a really good listener.

As it turned out, he wasn't a good listener, he was a _great_ listener. Maybe even a better listener than Doyle. Subsequently, all her not-wanting-to-talk-about-Doyle turned into hours of doing exactly that. Wilson listened patiently, without interruption. If there was some kind of award for patience, it should definitely be given to this guy.

"You know what I think?" Wilson said finally, having listened to the whole sordid tale. Every detail. _In_ great detail. He hadn't spoken in so long, Cordelia had almost forgotten that conversations were supposed to go both ways. But now, she was interested in knowing what his opinion of the situation was. "I think that guy's a fool."

"I guess you really have been listening." She replied good-humoredly.

"I have, and I think he missed out. Getting a chance with a girl like you isn't something that happens often. I can tell you're special." Wilson said sincerely.

"Oh." Cordelia couldn't help but blush a little at his comment. "You can?"

"I knew it the second you walked through that door." He said, leaning forward so he was closer to her, but he still kept enough space between them, so she'd know he wasn't intending to kiss her. Kind of a shame, since she was just starting to think it might actually be nice to kiss him. "Listen, I was thinking. Maybe you'd let me take your photo some time? One of my good buddies is a casting agent for all those popular WB shows on television. I bet if I showed him your picture, he'd want to meet with you. You don't even have to date me again, if you don't want to." He held up his hands to emphasize that there were no strings attached. "What do you say?"

Cordelia couldn't stop the huge smile from spreading across her face. This guy really knew how to turn the night around. Suddenly, she wasn't so upset with Doyle for breaking her heart. Not when she could be staring at a ticket to stardom. "I say yes!" She enthused. "And, well… maybe the date part would be okay, too. I mean, I want to."

Now Wilson smiled almost as big as she did. "I'm really glad to hear that."

He reached out and took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her bare knuckles. She admired his perfect rows of white teeth and thick dark locks, styled fashionably. He really was a good-looking guy, and he had so much to offer. So what if her heart wasn't into it. Hearts could change. And they could be ignored. Which is what she intended to do, for the time being. Ignore her stupid, misguided heart. Following it hadn't gotten her anything but pain, just as she'd expected.

It was time to brush off her trusty old checklist of dating prerequisites. She was more than a little certain the man in front of her would fulfill almost all of them, and then some.

She had nothing to lose by giving him a shot. Nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

* * *

Doyle sat fidgeting on the chair in front of Cordelia's desk staring at her empty chair. It was now practically noon and he had gone from depressed to concerned to _worried out of his mind_. He'd even called her apartment twice, which initially, he'd been hesitant to do.

The previous night had been rough for Doyle. Or, rather, it hadn't been much of anything, since he'd drank himself into a stupor waiting for Angel to get back to the office and then had been barely conscious as Angel drove him back to his own apartment where he finally passed out dead drunk.

At least that way, his brain cells hadn't been functioning well enough to think about Cordelia out on her perfect date with the guy of her dreams.

So he'd been late for work, expecting Cordelia to ream him out as she so often did. And worrying that he wouldn't be able to mask his pain from her this time. Her previous evening's actions had cut him deep, and he didn't think he could joke his way through it. Turns out that wasn't something he needed to be concerned about, since when he got to work, she wasn't there either. Nor had she left a message.

Cordelia wasn't exactly the most reliable Office Manager in the world, often flitting out for coffee breaks and auditions and the like, but she had never once been absent without word. Come to think of it, there hadn't been a day in all the time Doyle knew her, when he didn't have some idea of her whereabouts.

Today he had nothing except his imagination and he was imaging all sorts of terrible fates for her. Everything from the rather benign scenario where she'd overslept in someone else's bed—which still didn't sit terribly well with him—to the more bloodier and gorier version of that picture that was eating its way through Doyle's stomach lining.

"Still nothing?" Angel asked from the doorway. He was worried, too. That was a bad sign.

"No, man." Doyle admitted, looking up to see a mirror of his own concerns. "This isn't like her." He stood up from his chair, and moved closer to Angel. "We should probably go over to her place. Check things out."

Angel nodded in agreement and then, held up a hand indicating that Doyle should stay put. "Maybe you should stay here. Just in case…"

"In case she's not alone, ya mean?" Doyle bit back.

This time Angel didn't nod, but it was clear that was what he'd meant. Doyle shook his head in annoyance. "I can live with that." He said with conviction. "Long as we find out she's okay. 'Sides, it'll be a lot quicker if I drive your car over there, while you, y'know, cover up so you _don't_ burst into flames."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they marched up to her front door and were banging like lunatics, eliciting strange looks from one of Cordelia's neighbors. Angel looked like he was ready to knock the door down, when Doyle held out a hand. He knocked once more and this time, spoke into the wooden frame. "Dennis, man. It's Doyle! I'm worried about Cordy. Wouldya do me a favor and unlock the door?"

The door unlocked and Doyle stepped through the threshold with Angel on his heels. "Thanks, man." He said to the empty air, before turning to Angel in explanation. "The ghost. He likes me."

"She's here." Angel responded quietly, nodding down the hallway toward her bedroom. "Seems like she's alone."

Side-by-side Doyle and Angel wandered through the hallway towards Cordelia's bedroom, still calling her name and getting nothing. Knowing she was there and alone had brought Doyle some comfort, and Angel was still relatively calm, so she was clearly _alive_. But, something wasn't right.

It was Angel who opened the bedroom door, probably sensing Doyle's hesitancy to barge into Cordelia's private sleeping quarters. As she came into view, both men stopped dead in their tracks.

Cordelia sat up in bed, looking like she was no less than 9 months pregnant.

Doyle wasn't sure how he remained on his feet, but somehow he managed. Slowly following Angel as he inched closer to where Cordelia sat in her bed. Her cheeks were stained with tears and she looked so much younger than Doyle could ever remember her looking before. "Angel?" Her small voice choked out, as she focused on him first. "Something's wrong. This… I don't think this was supposed to happen."

"It's alright." The large vampire soothed, still moving closer to her bedside. Her eyes had darted from him to her belly and then bounced up in Doyle's direction, causing her to sit up straighter and cover herself with her arms. It did nothing to hide her enormous girth.

"No, Doyle! Don't come in!" She shrieked at Doyle suddenly, eyes wide with alarm. "I don't want you here. Get out!"

Doyle had barely made his way into the room, but her words slammed into him like a physical blow, causing him to backpedal into the doorway. Angel's eyes met his, silently communicating that he should wait in the hallway while Angel talked to her. So, Doyle said nothing, closing the door behind him and heading toward the living room to pace like a rat in a cage.

He felt like a pot that was over-boiling—a stream of emotions brewed inside him, spilling to the floor. First and foremost, he felt rage. Not at her, but at the degenerate who did this to her. Wilson Christopher was going to be getting up close and personal with Doyle's spikier side very soon, if he had anything to say about it. Underneath the uncontrollable anger was everything else: the worry, the hurt, the guilt… he wasn't even sure why he felt guilty, but there it was. Somewhere deep inside he felt like he should have been able to prevent this. He should have been able to protect her.

After a few minutes Angel came back out of her bedroom, and Doyle was on him in a heartbeat. "What did she say, man? What'd that guy do to her?!" He demanded, feeling the quills under his skin. He was ready to go demon face right at this moment. He couldn't recall another time in his life when he'd actually wanted to use the demon. Actually wanted to tear someone apart.

"She said it was all normal. And safe." Angel said tightly. "I made her dial the phone for me so I could talk to him, but the number's disconnected."

Doyle grinded his teeth in response. "I'm gonna kill him."

"We have to find him first." Angel responded, not necessarily disagreeing with the sentiment.

"Yeah, well… anything she needs, man." Doyle responded emphatically. "Obviously, this thing's demonic in nature. And judging by the looks of 'er, she could give birth at any minute. We needa find this guy fast."

"She can't be left alone." Angel declared, giving Doyle a look that told him exactly who Angel had in mind to keep her company.

Doyle shook his head involuntarily. "No… Angel, man, ya heard her in there. She doesn't want me anywhere near her." Doyle turned away, wracking his brain for another solution. He did think of something, but he couldn't believe he was about to suggest it out loud. "We could call Wesley to sit with her. He could maybe take her for one of those ultrasound thingamajigs. See what's in there, yeah?"

"We could do that." Angel said patiently, with the hint of warning to his voice. "But, I think she needs you right now." Doyle was about to object again, when Angel cut him off. "She kicked you out of the room because she's embarrassed, Doyle. She didn't want you to see her like that."

"She's got nothin' to be embarrassed about." Doyle spoke under his breath, suddenly feeling bad that he hadn't realized that was why she'd kicked him out. Instead, he'd jumped to the worst possible conclusion—that she had simply been rejecting him once again.

"You need to go tell her that." Angel continued. "She's afraid. She needs someone she trusts." He paused briefly sizing up his friend before finishing his assessment of the situation. "She needs someone who loves her to be by her side."

Doyle visibly winced at that. He knew Angel was right. He didn't really want to stick her with Wesley. He did, however, want to tear apart the asshole who'd done this to her. "What about daddy?" He growled through clenched teeth.

"I'll find him." Angel said. "And I'll try to save a few punches for you before I kill him."

Doyle accepted that. He knew Angel would take care of the guy as necessary. And he knew Angel was right about what Cordelia needed. She needed someone she trusted, someone she could depend on, no matter what. And this was Doyle's chance to prove to her, and to himself, that he was that kind of man. A man who could stand by someone he loved even in the most difficult situation.

He nodded to Angel, wordlessly consenting to the arrangement.

Once Angel had gone, Doyle had asked Dennis to show him where Cordelia kept her tea bags. He figured he should try and bring her something to calm her down, and as tempting as it was to offer his flask, he thought tea might be a little more appropriate. He kept himself busy, boiling the water, letting the tea bag steep—he'd chosen chamomile, remembering that Harry used to drink it before bed sometimes. That probably meant it was a nice, soothing choice.

After the tea was ready, he went to the bedroom door and knocked softly. He didn't hear her answer, but he opened the door anyway. She was lying on her side under the covers, sniffling softly. There was a wadded up tissue visibly clenched in her hand and her eyes were shut tight, but he imagined that if she opened them, they'd be red and puffy. "I brought ya some tea, love." He said softly, coming around the bed and placing the mug down on the small bedside table. "Is there anything else I can getcha?"

She shook her head tightly into the pillow, still not opening her eyes. He wrestled with himself, wondering if he should go back and wait in the living room, but then he remembered how big she was under those covers. Time was of the essence, and if he was ever going to get her to come willingly to the doctor's office with him, he was going to have to make her believe it was safe to get out of this bed first.

He slowly and cautiously sat down on the edge of her bed. He waited a moment, letting her feel the weight of the mattress shift, seeing if she'd cry out for him to leave again. She did no such thing this time, keeping herself cocooned and silent. "Cordelia." He said gently, placing a tentative hand on top of the mound of covers that was in rough proximity to where he thought her shoulder might be. "I'm here for ya. I wanna help ya through this, if you'll let me."

Apparently that was the right thing to say, because she opened her eyes and as expected, he saw how red and tear-filled they were. She let out a small sob as she gazed up at him. "I'm being punished." She choked out.

Doyle shook his head adamantly, giving her body a squeeze through the blankets and leaning closer. "God, no. Cordy… you're not bein' punished. Ya did nothing wrong." Someone did this to her, and like hell he was going to let her think she should blame herself. "Ya didn't deserve this."

"Didn't I?" She asked in a small voice, focusing those teary eyes in his direction. "I had a rule for myself about never sleeping with a guy on a first date. I broke it and look what happened."

As he looked at her, he was reminded how young she actually was. High school hadn't been that far behind her, and her life experience was still pretty limited. Doyle, on the other hand, had been around long enough to know how unfair life could be. Bad things happened to good people all the time, and it had nothing to do with punishment.

"Bad luck is all." He said soothingly. " _Extremely_ bad luck, but bad luck all the same."

He saw her lip begin to quiver at his words and he thought she was going to burst into tears. Instead, she sat up, letting the covers fall off her, revealing her huge pregnant belly. She reached out for him and he raised his arms to settle them around her shoulders, feeling her arms clasp around his body in turn. Only then did she cry, soaking the side of his shirt. He held her silently, stroking her back lightly. She was still sniffling when she finally spoke, her voice muffled by his clothing. "So you're not… mad at me?" She pulled back, raising her eyes to his. They were wide and innocent and absolutely terrified.

He reflexively lifted a hand to her cheek, wiping away some of the tears that still clung there. "No, I'm not mad at ya." He said sincerely. "I'm mad at the guy who did this to ya."

He pulled her close again, keeping his hand against her cheek and whispering into her hair. "I just wanna help."

"You won't leave?" He had barely heard the small plea, so soft it was and buried in his chest.

"Ya couldn't get ridda me if ya tried, darlin'." He assured her, still holding her tightly.

And he meant it. He'd be by her side, and they'd figure this out together. Whatever _it_ turned out to be.


	13. Expecting, Pt 3

**"Expecting," Part III**

Doyle tapped his leg anxiously up and down. He had been able to coax Cordelia out of her apartment and into Angel's car, and now the two of them sat in the waiting room at the Los Angeles Women's Clinic. She was filling out some paperwork in the chair next to him, and she kept sighing in frustration, unable to answer the majority of the questions on the form.

"How far along do you think I am?" She asked him under her breath.

"Ah…mostly there, I'd say." Doyle replied uneasily. "Why dontcha put 8 ½ months? That looks about right."

"It asks for weeks." Cordelia responded testily.

Doyle exhaled, doing the math in his head as quickly as he could. "34 weeks. Or, maybe you should put 35 or 36." He looked at her again. "37 weeks, go with that, yeah?"

She shook her head, scribbling away the number she'd written and replacing it with another. "Make up your mind already." She snipped, even as she dutifully obeyed his instruction. Her eyes continued to scan the form, causing her to inhale sharply. "It asks for the father's information." She pushed the clipboard into Doyle's lap. "Can you just… put your information down. Please?"

That took him aback. He stared down at the empty slots on the form that he now held in his hands, and then looked up at her in bemusement. "Me?" He asked dumbly.

" _Please_?" She begged for a second time, and he could see the slight tremble working it's way back into her lip. He didn't need to be asked a third time. He quickly began scribbling his information down on the form under the section that asked about the father. Not everything he wrote down was accurate, but he figured that didn't matter, seeing how the baby inside her wasn't actually his, nor was it human. He tried not to think too hard about what he was doing or have any specific feelings about it. Detachment was the key to getting through this ordeal. And, of course, hoping that Angel had luck locating the actual father and figuring out how to get whatever this was out of her.

He finished filling out the paperwork and brought it up to the front desk. As he returned to Cordelia's side, he noticed a pregnant woman smiling over at the two of them. "This is your first, huh? Don't worry, it's always scary the first time. It gets better. Pretty soon you'll be on your third, like me."

Cordelia made a face at the woman and gave something resembling a snarl. The pregnant woman shut her mouth quickly and averted her gaze. Doyle patted Cordelia's leg comfortingly. "Shouldn't be long, darlin'. I let 'em know this was an urgent matter."

She nodded tightly. He couldn't stop fidgeting. Truth was, he was desperate for a cigarette, and if he thought she wouldn't lose her mind, he'd probably try and slip out for one. Instead, he reached for one of the magazines on the table in front of him. They were all women's magazines, mostly with pregnancy themes. Top breastfeeding tips… well, that looked like it could be an interesting read. He leaned back in his chair and began flipping pages.

"So, are you and Harry back together now?"

Just like that, the promise of bare breasts became a lot less interesting.

He thought for sure he must've misheard her. Or, maybe she was joking and he just wasn't catching on to the joke. He looked up at her, and was greeted with a completely serious visage. She was really asking him this question and he couldn't for the life of him understand where it had come from. "Am I… Harry what?" He stuttered, blinking at her in confusion. "Where'd ya get a crazy idea like that?"

"Oh, I don't know." Cordelia huffed, folding her arms atop her large belly. "Maybe it had something to do with the fact that you were _kissing her_ outside the office the other night."

Doyle's jaw dropped open and he couldn't make it close again. "Ah…" He finally found his voice, at least partially. "I wasn't—"

She whirled toward him in her chair, raising the volume so that the other occupants of the waiting room were now privy to their conversation. "Don't try and deny it, Doyle. I saw you kiss her!"

"I'm not denying anything." He griped back at her. "Ya just don't understand what ya saw, that's all."

"Okay, then. Feel free to explain how you _weren't_ actually kissing your ex-wife who I _saw you_ kissing." She replied impatiently. "Did time rewind again? Do you have a doppelganger from another reality?"

Doyle was now getting a few dirty looks from the other occupants of the waiting room. He tried to laugh it off and pointed toward Cordelia, making a motion as if to say she was a little crazy in the head. The cold hard stares didn't lessen as a result. "Could ya keep your voice down, love?" He muttered close to her ear. "These nice people are getting the wrong idea 'bout the type of guy I am."

"Who cares what they think?" She snapped back at him, before settling into a deep pout.

He supposed he didn't, but he still wasn't enjoying getting the evil eye from everyone else in the room.

Doyle cleared his throat apprehensively, lifting the magazine off his lap and tossing it back into the pile on the table in front of him. "You're right, Princess. I don't care what they think, I care what you think. And right now, everything you're thinkin' is wrong." He explained softly, trying to keep his composure. "On the topic of Harry… First thing—I didn't kiss her. _She_ kissed me. Second, she and I both agreed it was a mistake that won't be happening again in this lifetime. And third, I can't say I understand why it's upsettin' ya so much. You've never seemed to take an interest in my social life before. Why do ya care who's kissing me now?"

"Because!" She shot back, aiming her exasperated expression directly at him. "I would've never gone out with Wilson if it wasn't for that!"

He was struck completely dumb by that particular revelation. Even she seemed shocked to have said it, biting down hard on her lower lip and averting her gaze into her lap.

"You wouldn't have?" He heard himself demand.

"No." She repeated quietly, but earnestly.

"Why not?" He pushed, although he was starting to suspect he already knew the answer. She had just lifted her head, mouth opening slowly to form a response…

"Mrs. Doyle!" The nurse at the front of the room called loudly.

Doyle's head shot upwards, half expecting Harriet to be standing there. And then he realized, he was sitting next to the Mrs. Doyle in question.

"Cordelia Chase-Doyle." The nurse repeated.

Cordelia jumped, apparently not having realized that she was Mrs. Doyle either. She gave him a small nervous smile and then pushed herself out of the chair with great effort. As she waddled toward the nurse, Doyle followed slowly behind, heart still thundering in his chest. Try as he might, he couldn't force his brain back into detachment mode, not after what she'd just told him.

* * *

Doyle sat beside Cordelia's bedside in the exam room. She was squeezing his hand so hard that his fingers had started to go numb, but he wasn't going to take his hand away. Not even if his fingers fell off. He could see how frightened she was, and if holding his hand gave her any sort of comfort, then he'd give her both of them, readily.

"So, you just moved from England, is that right?" Dr. Wasserman was asking as he rolled the ultrasound monitor into place, and prepped Cordelia's abdomen by squeezing some translucent goo all over it.

Doyle looked questioningly at Cordelia, wondering where on the form it had asked for some crazy backstory about moving from England? She raised her eyebrows at him, trying to convey something. "That's right." She answered the doctor. "That's why I don't have a doctor here in the states."

Okay, that made sense. But, still. _England?!_

"Alright, Mrs. Doyle, why don't you lie back and we'll see what's baking in the oven." The doctor said, removing the transducer from its holder and moving it in circles around her large belly. "Have you folks settled on a name? It's the hardest part for a lot of people."

Baby names? Was he really being asked about baby names? In a doctor's office. With an extremely pregnant Cordelia lying beside him, squeezing the circulation out of his fingers. He started to feel a bit lightheaded as he stood there, wondering how he had come to live this particular nightmare version of something that had once been a dream.

Once upon a time, there was nothing he'd wanted more than to have a baby with the woman he loved. At the time, the woman he loved was Harriet and they had discussed baby names on more than one occasion. He'd always been partial to Liam for a boy; he wondered what Angel would think of that. It didn't matter anyway because once Doyle discovered the truth about his own DNA, a baby was the last thing he wanted. He _never_ wanted to pass to a child that which he hated so much about himself. Goodbye dreams, goodbye Harry.

It had been so long since he'd let himself remember how badly he'd wanted all that. He'd buried it deep. And standing in a doctor's office, holding Cordelia's hand, he hated that all those feelings were being unburied. It was like salt being poured into a very old wound that was beginning to reopen—truthfully, it had never healed quite right in the first place.

The fact that he was in love with Cordelia only made it that much worse. When he looked at her, he could see himself wanting those things again, and that terrified him far more than not wanting them. Especially considering, she was currently pregnant with some _other demon's_ baby. An experience that would surely put her off of demon pregnancies forever, assuming she lived through this one.

"Hmm, looks like someone is having twins." Dr. Wasserman announced, snapping Doyle out of his deep thoughts.

"Twins?" Cordelia whimpered, finding a way to squeeze his hand even harder.

"No, there's a third heartbeat." The doctor said, continuing to move the transducer back and forth along Cordelia's abdomen.

Doyle had already started to maneuver himself so he could see the screen as well. It was hard to do with Cordelia gripping his hand so tightly, but he managed to see the images without having his arm dislocated.

Oh dear.

"There's another one." The nurse said in quiet awe, from over the doctor's shoulder.

"Five. Six…oh my God." Dr. Wasserman's eyes had gotten very wide.

Doyle swallowed hard as he saw the multiple images on the monitor. He looked nervously back at Cordelia's belly, having trouble imagining that all those creatures on the screen were currently living inside her. This was also confirmation of something else, which he'd been reluctant to consider before now—there was absolutely no way she would survive giving birth to these things.

He vaguely became aware of the doctor and nurse scrambling for a large syringe, explaining something about getting a sample of the amniotic fluid and a 5% risk of miscarriage. Doyle nodded mechanically, moving out of the way, while they prepped Cordelia's belly for the injection. She buried her face against his arm, as they inserted the huge needle and began draining a thick, yellowish fluid from her protruding abdomen.

Doyle may not know everything about pregnancy, but he knew that was not right. And it became even less right seconds later when the syringe cracked and fell to the floor, and the contents began melting _through_ he floor.

Needless to say, Dr. Wasserman and the nurse had run screaming and, although he very much wanted to do the same, he had to stay brave for Cordelia's sake. Luckily, she didn't seem too concerned over the fact that her amniotic fluid was made of acid.

"You saw them, Doyle? You saw my babies?" She asked, as he grabbed a paper towel from the holder on the wall and wiped the goo off her belly. He helped her sit up and pull up her overalls, securing them in place.

"Don't worry about that now, darlin'. Let's just get ya over to Angel's. See if he's had any luck with daddy-dearest." Doyle gently helped her off the examination table, and slipped an arm around her waist as they walked to the door. He figured the quicker he could get her out of there, the better. It wouldn't be long before Dr. Wasserman sent security or worse…

"I don't want Wilson to be their father." She said in a petulant voice. "Do you think… I mean, maybe you could be their father instead?"

Doyle tried not to stumble as he heard the words that came out of her mouth. It seemed like a rather odd concern in the midst of all this, but then, it occurred to him that she probably had some pretty serious pregnancy hormones kicking in right about now. Not to mention the power of maternal instinct, demon or otherwise. "Ah… y'know what? I think you've got some time to decide that, love. One step at a time, yeah?"

"Okay." She agreed, leaning against him as they stumbled down the hallway toward the rear emergency exit of the clinic. "Just tell me one more thing… did they look healthy?"


	14. Expecting, Pt 4

**"Expecting," Part IV**

Doyle pulled the covers up over Cordelia as she lay back on the pillows in Angel's bed. She had been groaning the whole way from the car down into the apartment, and Doyle was concerned enough about her physical state that he'd been able to block out most of the crazy things that were now spilling freely from her mouth.

And they were crazy.

He pulled the door to the bedroom half way closed and stepped into the living room as Angel made a timely entrance into the apartment.

"How is she?" Angel asked worriedly, sneaking a peek through the crack in the door.

"Better'n me, that's for sure." Doyle replied, rubbing a hand over his face. "She's got seven very inhuman little buggers in there, and instead of worrying about the likelihood that she'll die giving birth to the things, she's fixing to play house. And guess who she wants to play daddy?"

Angel's face didn't alter much in appearance, but Doyle could feel the empathetic waves of understanding. "Uh oh..."

"Yeah, uh oh, is right. She says they could be good little demons if only they have a good demon role model." He grumbled. "They're in her head. Talking to 'er and such. It's really starting to freak me out."

"I have more bad news." Angel admitted.

"No luck finding the real dad, huh?" Doyle guessed.

"Not yet." Angel moved away from Doyle, pacing a bit out of frustration. "But, I did find Cordelia's friend Sarina. And she's every bit as pregnant as Cordelia."

"Geez, man." Doyle breathed in despair. "Someone's building an army!"

"At least she gave me a lead on where I can find the demon fathers. Sounds like there are at least four of them. Maybe more." Angel paused, to take another glance toward the direction of the bedroom. "Maybe it's time we got someone else to sit with her. I might need you for this part. Do you think you could call Harry? She knows a lot about demons, and female things..."

"Ah...I don't think that's a good idea at the moment." Doyle objected. "Cordy's gotten a bit… _clingy_ since the hormones kicked in. Something tells me she won't take too kindly to me leaving her with my ex-wife."

He left out the part where he was more than a little concerned Cordelia would try and strangle said ex-wife for her recent moment of weakness. The way Cordelia was acting, there was really no way to tell what she was going to do, and Doyle wasn't looking to find out the hard way.

"Alright, I guess we'll have to call Wesley, then." Angel responded, then gave Doyle a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry. I know this must be hard for you, considering how you feel about her. But, you should know, it's not just the hormones talking. She cares about you, which is probably why she's, uh..."

"I get it, man." Doyle said quietly. "None of that's gonna make a difference if she doesn't survive this. We've gotta find a way to get those things out of 'er without killing her."

"We will." Angel promised.

A noise in the kitchen caught the attention of both men. As they moved toward the noise, they both came up short as Cordelia came into view. She was standing in front of the wide-open refrigerator, chugging a bottle of blood. She paused for air, and looked up at them innocently, blood dripping from her chin. "I was hungry." She explained with an innocent shrug.

Doyle gagged and turned his back on the gruesome sight. "That's just not right."

"I don't think I ever realized how disgusting that was." Angel remarked, revulsion written subtly across his features. "I'm going to call Wesley. You... order her a pizza or something."

* * *

The lead Angel had gotten from Sarina turned out to be a private gun club. Not exactly a place Doyle felt entirely comfortable. Angel may be bullet proof, but he certainly wasn't. It also gave him a bad feeling about the guys they were searching for. In his experience, the only demons who'd ever had interest in guns or weaponry were the Scourge; they were also real big on raising armies. On the other hand, the Scourge weren't likely to recruit humans for procreation purposes, so that was a slight comfort, Doyle supposed.

It didn't take them long to locate Wilson, and Doyle could feel his rage growing exponentially the closer they got. He was, of course, in the shooting range when they found him, wearing earmuffs to prevent hearing loss. Angel and Doyle stood behind him covering their own ears, waiting for him to realize he had company. When he did eventually turn around, removing his safety goggles and earmuffs, he looked only mildly surprised and more than mildly annoyed. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that in here." He reloaded the gun in his hand as he continued to speak. "That's how accidents happen."

Doyle's teeth were grinding as he looked at this smug bastard's face. If it weren't for the loaded weapon in the guy's hand, Doyle would have already used his fist to start pummeling. As it was, he held himself back, so as not to die a hero's death foolishly and unnecessarily. Angel stood slightly in front of Doyle, purposely so. In the event a bullet was fired, he'd be the one taking it, not Doyle. "Speaking of accidents. We're good friends of Cordelia Chase." Angel said with an undercurrent of danger. He was real good at those indirect threats, Angel was.

Wilson looked completely unfazed, "This is a private club. Featured word, _private_."

"You don't talk to us, we're gonna kick your ass." Angel countered. "Featured word, _ass_."

"So, do me a favor, bud," Doyle snarled from over Angel's shoulder. "Don't start talking, 'cause I'm real anxious to get to the ass-kicking portion of this whole thing."

"Doyle, right? The accent gave it away." Wilson said smugly. "Maybe I owe you some thanks, man. It probably would've taken me a lot longer to get her into bed, if she wasn't so messed up about you. Rebounds are always easy pickings."

Doyle lurched forward without thinking, but Angel held him back, continuing to shield him from the gun in Wilson's hand.

Wilson only laughed. "So, you mean to tell me, you've had to listen to all that yapping for months, and you still haven't gotten to sleep with her yet? You must be a glutton for punishment." Wilson moved his cocky gaze from Doyle to Angel. "And you must be her boss. Angel, is it? Yeah, she told me all about you both."

Angel chose that moment to grab Wilson's hand, causing him to drop the gun, and then twisted his arm around his back. His other arm went around the guy's throat as he snarled in his ear. "Somehow I doubt that." He tossed him into the wall, and he landed on the ground in a heap, after bouncing off said wall.

"Human?" Doyle asked incredulously, with more than a touch of disappointment.

"Seems that way." Angel replied, also surprised. He had sensed that Wilson was a human all along, but assumed there was also demon. It wouldn't be the first time he couldn't sense a demon. But, now there was no question—the guy was nothing more than human.

"That mean I don't get to kill him?" Doyle asked with a frown.

"Probably not." Angel responded in a low growl. "But breaking and bruising are just fine by me."

By now Wilson had pulled himself up off the floor and he tried to push his way past Angel and Doyle. Angel easily blocked his path. "So, you're not the father. What are you, then? Some kind of link for the demon? Do you have any idea what's going to happen to her—to all those women—once those things come to term? Tell me how it works." As Angel berated the guy with questions, he became more and more furious, seizing the guy by his collar. Doyle had to admit, he was really glad Angel was on his side. And even gladder he was manhandling this jerk.

"I'm not telling you anything." Wilson spat back.

Angel replied a little too calmly. "Was _so_ hoping you'd say that." He held the guy out toward Doyle, and nodded his approval for Doyle to take the first swing, which Doyle was all too happy to do. Putting all he had into it, he knocked the guy down with a hard right cross. Wilson came back at him, but Angel caught Wilson once again, bringing a knee up to meet Wilson's face. The guy struggled to stand after that, but Doyle stepped forward, readying himself for the next round.

"Two on one doesn't seem very fair." One of Wilson's buddies said, entering the room from behind them. "What do you say we make it four on two? Or, better yet, four on the little one?" The guy raised the gun in his hand and fired three bullets into Angel's gut.

Big mistake. For them.

Angel hunched over and when he stood back up, he was in full vamp face. "I really hate it when people shoot me."

As Angel leapt into action, easily disarming the guy with the gun, and then using him as a bowling ball to knock down the other two, Doyle made a decision. Much as he generally hated fighting in his demon face, he wanted the pathetic human specimen at his feet to start talking, and he had a feeling he'd respond better to something a little less human. Plus, roughing the guy up in demon form was bound to do more damage. He stared down at Wilson who was slowly getting back to his feet, and allowed the spikes to come up through his skin. With his enhanced strength, he yanked the guy up by his shirt collar and brought him a centimeter away from the sharp quills on his face.

"Alright now, bud, while Angel's playing with your friends, I'm thinking you and me should have ourselves a little chat, yeah?"

* * *

"Almost done. Hold still."

Doyle dug the last bullet out of Angel's chest, tossing it aside and wiping his bloodied hands carelessly on his pants. Angel pulled down his shirt as he finished up in the phone booth.

Doyle paced several steps away, worrying his brow. He'd heard enough of the conversation to get the gist—Cordelia was already on her way to meet the real baby daddy—a Haxil Demon. The rest of the information he'd already beaten out of Wilson. Although it had been highly disturbing to learn that all the impregnated women were being controlled by a psychic umbilical cord, the silver lining was that the cord could be cut without harming them. Of course, Doyle was fairly certain he'd just overheard the words 'impossible to kill' being uttered on the other end of the phone line. That lining was far less silver.

"Wesley, can you shoot straight?" Angel asked into the pay phone receiver. Apparently the answer he heard was a positive one. "Alright, meet us there and bring your gun."

Angel hung up and led the way back to his car.

"I'm hoping you have a better plan than Wesley firing bullets at an impossible-to-kill Haxil Demon." Doyle remarked. "Cordelia's life depends on it."

"I have a better plan." Angel assured him.

* * *

It was a better plan. For the most part.

The part Doyle was less crazy about was his own role, which could only be described as "bait."

Nevertheless, he did what needed to be done, which was climb up to the platform that overlooked the vat of foul-smelling liquid, where Cordelia and the other pregnant women were wading. Each of them was clothed in nearly transparent white robes, which were now soaked straight through. Cordelia herself, looked radiant despite the circumstances, and Doyle silently reprimanded himself for having impure thoughts about her at a time like this. Regardless, his instruction from Angel was clear—draw the demon out, and, if possible, get the women out of the way.

"Cordelia." He called down to her. "Cordy, can ya hear me?"

She didn't reply, nor did she look up. He moved closer to the edge, and crouched down to get closer to her.

"Cordelia, please come outta there? And bring your friends." He begged.

"We don't expect you to understand." She replied in a trance-like voice, that was most decidedly not Cordelia's.

A whiff of the vile fluid wafted up and entered his nostrils and Doyle sat back, almost losing his balance… and his lunch. "Gah! This stuff is terrible. I hate to thinka what it's made of. Trust me, when I say, you're gonna regret taking this particular bath, Princess."

No comment. No sign of the demon. He wasn't a big enough fly for the thing to even bother swatting away. If he didn't figure out a way to get its attention soon, the women would go into labor and the whole plan would fail. Cordelia would die.

"Listen, I do understand." Doyle insisted. "I thought about what ya asked me—about bein' a father to your little ones. I, uh... I wanna do it. I wanna raise 'em with ya. You and me, together, yeah?"

He saw it then, a flicker of recognition behind the demon's influence. She actually looked up at him, but the words she spoke were still not her own. "We serve our master."

"Will ya listen to yourself?" He said reproachfully. "That's not you, Cordy. You don't serve anyone! Now, tell me, am I gonna have to jump in there and grab ya, or are ya gonna come to me willingly?"

She didn't reply, but she did move a few inches toward him. It wasn't much, but it was enough to cause a rumbling of the floor, as the Haxil Demon finally made itself known. "Who dares disturb the birth of my children?!"

Doyle swallowed heavily, standing up and turning toward the gigantic beast that had just appeared from the shadows. Unfortunately, it wasn't close enough for Angel's plan to work, so Doyle would have to continue to taunt the giant, impossible-to-kill demon until it came close enough to kill him. Yeah, really wonderful plan.

"Ah... the name's Doyle. Allen Francis Doyle. And as it so happens, you've got yourself a lady in this here tank who's already spoken for." He cleared his throat nervously. "By me."

The demon made some indescribable noise that Doyle supposed might've been a laugh. "What is your purpose here?" It demanded.

"My purpose is to rescue her!" Doyle shouted back. "And if that means I have to fight ya, man to—ah, demon, then that's what I'm gonna do. Come down and face me, ya bastard!"

"You wish to do battle with me over a woman?" The demon asked incredulously.

"That's right." Doyle maintained, putting up his fists mockingly. "Unless you're too chicken to take me on." He made a clucking sound, egging the thing on.

"Very well. I will kill you." The demon complied, moving closer to the platform where Doyle stood. The floor rumbled so violently that Doyle almost lost his balance and landed in the horrifying liquid below his feet. He prayed silently that Wesley was as good a shot as he portended to be, or Doyle was certain this would be his last stand.

At least he'd go out defending Cordelia's honor. Maybe she'd think it was romantic, assuming she didn't die with him, of course.

Once the demon was close enough for Doyle to be truly terrified, Angel appeared with a large tank hoisted over his shoulder. "Sorry I'm late to the baby shower." He deadpanned. "I brought a little gift."

He spun the tank around several times before throwing it straight at the Haxil Demon, which plucked it out of the air with little effort. At that moment, Wesley appeared from his own hiding place, at the base of the vat. "As did I." He remarked, aiming and firing the gun he held in his hand, and hitting the tank dead center. A stream of liquid nitrogen sprayed out of the tank and soon encompassed the beast, freezing it in place.

Doyle turned back toward the vat containing the women and saw their pregnant bellies all deflate instantly and the clarity return to their eyes. After that, there was some gagging and choking as they all became aware of the vile substance they were standing waist-deep in. Cordelia had met his concerned eyes for only a brief instant, before she began stomping her way toward the edge of the vat. "Get me out of this muck." She gritted up at him, raising her arms up so he could help lift her out. He clasped her right arm and pulled her up far enough so that she could hoist herself up onto the platform beside him.

"Ya okay, love?" He asked her quietly. He noted that aside from the brief eye contact he'd received while she was still waist-deep in filth, she was now carefully avoiding looking in his direction. She stood up and turned away without saying a word. Marching over to a large pulley hanging on a rope, she swung the heavy metal object in the demon's direction, shattering it into a million tiny pieces.

"I really hate dating." She muttered at the pile of crystalized demon remains.

Doyle hung back, not sure what he should do to help her now. Not sure what she needed from him. He knew what he wanted to do—he wanted to pull her into his arms and continue to be there for her the way he'd been for the past 12 hours. What's more, he wanted to reassure her that he'd _always_ be there for her, through thick and thin, demon pregnancy or not. That's what he wanted to do, but he wasn't sure that's what _she'd_ want him to do. Cordelia was prickly that way. She wasn't the type of girl to faint away into the hero's arms and let herself be carried off into the sunset. No, she was the type to drag herself out of the muck, turn a ginormous Haxil Demon into a pile of dust and then stomp off by herself to take a shower. And Doyle had the distinct feeling that the vulnerability she had shown to him earlier in the day would rebound into a glacier of Titanic proportions. It was her way.

It was _their_ way. No matter how many steps forward they took, they'd take just as many back.

So, instead, he stepped forward hesitantly, and removed his beat up, brown leather jacket, extending it toward her with a nod. She stared at it, seemingly confused for a moment and then she looked down at her transparent, filthy white robe. She took the jacket from his hand and wrapped it around herself, giving him a fleeting smile of thanks, but still keeping her eyes averted. Then, she turned away from him and silently made her way to the exit.

Stomping off. By herself. Just as he'd expected.

Doyle, Angel and Wesley all paraded behind her, each feeling equally powerless.


	15. Expecting, Pt 5

**"Expecting," Part V**

 _What's the point of seeing the future if you can't change anything?_

That was the question Doyle was asking himself as he sat alone in his tiny apartment, flipping through his notes based on the vision he'd received from the other Cordelia. Nowhere in those notes had there been anything about the Haxil Demon pregnancy, or how he could've stopped it from happening. And he really, _really_ would have liked to have stopped it from happening.

He supposed it might _not_ have happened to her before. It could have been caused specifically because he was alive, instead of dead. And that possibility just made him feel all the worse.

His eyes fell on a few pages that did have something to do with a pregnancy, but it didn't seem to involve Cordelia. Then there were the vague references to Wesley that Doyle had missed the first time. Probably because he hadn't even met Wesley when he first wrote all this stuff down and a lot of it had faded from his actual memory. Now he squinted his eyes down at the page, wondering what the hell he'd written next to the stuffy Brit's name… _The father will_ _not_ _kill the son_.

Well, what the hell did that mean? And what good did it do him now?

Nothing, that's what.

He stopped flipping through the pages of apparently useless nonsense and tossed the notebook aside in favor of his trusty bottle of whiskey. A cigarette sat in an ashtray, unsmoked, but still burning. It was yet another evening where Doyle drowned his sorrows in his many vices. At this rate, he should probably go out and bet this month's rent at the track.

He was staring at the phone again, wondering if he should call Cordelia to check up on her. He'd been dying to call her ever since he left her at her apartment. He knew she wasn't okay, he knew she needed… _something_.

Space. What Cordelia needed was space. That was the type of girl she was. If he tried to smother her with comfort and kindness, he'd end up iced out completely. He was sure of that.

He turned away from the phone, and lifted the bottle to his lips.

He needed to give Cordelia her space… and he'd take his whiskey as cold comfort for himself.

* * *

"Y'think I shouldn't have called her?" Doyle asked uncertainly, watching as Angel finished hanging the brightly colored _Welcome Back Cordelia_ sign over her desk.

"Maybe." Angel answered stepping down off the step stool. "Why _did_ you call her?"

Doyle sighed, suddenly doubtful of his decision. "Cause I wanted to check on her. See how she was feelin'. I was tryin' to be there for her."

"It was wise of you to call her." Wesley assured Doyle from across the room, smiling to himself as he pressed the button on the coffee maker and then frowning as nothing happened.

"Oh, great. Wesley thinks I did the right thing. I'm definitely doomed." Doyle whined.

Angel patted Doyle on the shoulder, folding the step stool and moving it back into the corner. "You're not doomed. It was right that you called her. I just hope it's not too soon for her to be coming back, that's all. I hope she's not rushing herself."

"I didn't tell her to come in today." Doyle clarified, following behind Angel as he went back into his own office. "She insisted on that part all on her own."

"Well, what did you tell her?" Angel asked, as he picked up a pile of magazines that he had on his desk, and moved back toward the outer office.

"Ah... y'know, just that Wesley was filling in for the time being." Doyle said with a shrug, continuing to follow Angel back into the front office. "And that I didn't know it was possible for anyone to make worse coffee than she did."

"Pardon me." Wesley objected, standing up from where he was still fussing with the coffee maker. "I resent that."

Doyle rolled his eyes in response and kept his focus on Angel. "And, I may have told her, ah…" He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "That we missed her."

Doyle shut his eyes and cringed before he had a chance to see Angel's reaction, but when he opened them again, all he saw was an approving smile. "I'm sure she liked hearing that." Angel responded quietly, carefully placing the stack of magazines neatly in the center of her desk.

A loud whack caused Angel to look up and Doyle to spin around to face Wesley, who had just assaulted the coffee machine. "Well, I give up." He said, throwing his arms up in the air in frustration. "The coffee maker is broken!"

At that moment the front door swung open, revealing Cordelia, looking as radiant as ever. She laughed as she looked up and saw the banner, and Doyle was relieved to see that she was still capable of lighting up the room with her smile. She didn't look like a girl who'd been damaged or broken, she looked like she always looked, which was to say, she was a force to be reckoned with.

"It's unplugged." She said nonchalantly to Wesley as she brushed past him and the "broken" coffee maker on the way toward her desk, leaving him sputtering in her wake.

"Unplugged? But who would have done a thing like that…?" He bent down to remedy the plug situation, and therefore missed, Doyle's guilty chuckle at his expense.

Angel stood behind Cordelia's desk with a bigger smile on his face than could be considered natural, and Doyle leaned casually against the side of her desk, with his arms folded.

"Mornin', Princess." Doyle said, using the greeting he always did. "Looking lovelier than ever. Definitely a sight for sore eyes."

He felt the warmth of her smile as it beamed in his direction. Apparently there would be no arctic front in Doyle City after all. And thank God for that.

"Cordelia… you do look great." Angel enthused, still with the overly big smile. "I mean, it's been only two days. You didn't have to come in so soon."

"I'm fine." She replied, circling the desk to sling her purse onto the side of the chair. "I had this great audition this morning for Max Crax. You know those little crackers?"

"That's terrific." Angel said enthusiastically.

"Who doesn't love themselves a little cracker?" Wesley chimed in, standing up straight and pushing the coffee maker button, this time to much success. He grinned madly.

Doyle made a face at Wesley to show how ridiculous he thought he was, and then turned an arched brow in Cordelia's direction. "Gotta say, I've never been a cracker man, but I'd start buying 'em if your face came on the package, darlin'."

"The producer was _so_ nice. He said I'm his first choice." She stated, rearranging the items on her desk. She could tell that someone had tried to straighten up, but everything was in the wrong place. "We're going out to dinner tonight."

Doyle felt the grin that had initially been easy and genuine freeze on his face, becoming more unnatural than Angel's. On second thought, he would've preferred Antarctica to _this._ He knew the power of speech would fail him, so he stood gaping instead.

"Uh-huh. Tonight?" Angel's smile slipped, and he didn't sound at all casual.

Wesley did marginally better. "Well, best to get back on the horse, if he seems…"

"He is _so_ sweet. He says that all I have to do is let him impregnate me with his demon master's seed, and I've got the part."

She finally stopped straightening up her desk, and grinned up at Doyle, specifically. He could see the laughter in her eyes, and she even shook her head slightly as if to say she couldn't believe he fell for it. In any case, he visibly breathed a sigh of relief, not caring that she saw him do it.

She turned away from Doyle meeting Angel's eyes next and then finally Wesley's as well. "Guys, I appreciate the concern, but I'm _okay_. I mean, it was an ordeal, but I got through it. And I'm a lot stronger than those loser demon surrogates thought."

"Don't we know it?" Doyle agreed, giving her an impressed smile.

"And I just wanted to thank you all." She went on, again meeting each of their eyes. "Knowing I can trust any one of you with my life… it means a lot."

There were grins all around, and Wesley even looked a little weepy. Cordelia rolled her eyes at all the drama. "Okay, chop chop. No more fussing. Back to work!" She clapped her hands in the air, and pulled out her chair, taking her seat at the desk.

"Right. Back to work." Angel echoed, looking a little unsure about what that meant, since there wasn't any actual work to do. He simply shrugged and headed into his own office.

Doyle sauntered over to the couch, grabbed the newspaper and put his feet up on the coffee table. He opened up to the sports page and settled into the couch cushions, giving an admiring glance in Cordelia's direction. She really was an amazing woman, not that he'd ever doubted it.

Wesley stood awkwardly by the coffee maker, looking a little lost. "I… uh, well… I suppose I should probably be going. Since Cordelia's back, and everything's… ahem…. back to normal."

"See ya, Wesley." Cordelia said, without looking up from one of the magazines she'd opened on her desk. Doyle merely grunted without moving the paper away from his face.

"Yes, right. I _will_ be seeing you." Wesley said, making his way to the front door as slowly as humanly possible. He was at the door, hand hovering over the doorknob.

"Unless…" Cordelia said, suddenly looking up. Wesley stood at attention, like a hunting dog pointing toward a fallen duck.

"Unless…?" He parroted questioningly.

"Well, there's a lot of dusting that needs to be done in Angel's office. And even though I'm fine, I don't know if I'm _that_ fine, y'know?"

Wesley's face lit up as if she'd asked him to go to Prom all over again. "Say no more. I am a dusting fiend." He grabbed the duster out of the bucket of cleaning supplies in the bathroom and headed off toward Angel's office.

"Beware of the rogue dust hunter." Doyle snarked from behind his newspaper.

"Wesley, what exactly are you doing?" Angel's slightly perturbed voice carried out from his office. Wesley started to reply, but whatever he said was cut off when the door separating the two offices was shut.

Doyle lowered the paper to see who might've done that, and saw that it was Cordelia herself, who had stood up from the desk and closed the door, affording them a moment of privacy. She stood smiling at Doyle with her back to the door, before moving forward to join him on the couch.

He sat up straighter, tossing aside the paper, wondering what exactly he was in store for. Whatever it was, it seemed good, judging by her demeanor.

"Doyle, I just wanted to talk to you for a minute." She said sweetly, smoothing her palms across her lap.

"O'course, darlin'. I'm always listening." He said, turning his body slightly so he was facing her more directly. He leaned his arm on the back of the couch, giving her his undivided attention.

"You do always listen, don't you?" She noted with something akin to amazement. That smile of hers grew extra-wide once again before morphing into something that seemed almost… shy? "I just wanted to say thank you for everything you said and did to make me feel safe while I was... _y'know_."

"No need to thank me." Doyle assured her. "I didn't do anything any decent fella wouldn't have done. It's what friends are for."

"That's not true." She said reaching out her hand to catch and squeeze his. His eyes fell toward the spot where their skin made contact, feeling that rush of electricity that seemed to exist only between them. "Most people wouldn't have done that. Some don't even do it when they're supposed to. And no one's _ever_ done anything close to that for me." She swallowed hard and he could see how sincere she was being. It was almost a little disarming coming from her; to be on the receiving end of her appreciation increased his pulse-rate even more than her touch. "This whole thing, it made me realize how lucky I am to have someone I can really depend on. Someone I can trust with, um… _more_ than my life." Her stumble with the completion of that sentence seemed to indicate a change in her choice of words, and he felt like he knew what she had considered saying. He felt like he knew what she _was_ saying.

Doyle was more than a little encouraged by what he could see swimming in her dark eyes—deep pools of unspoken emotion. It seemed to confirm what he'd suspected since their conversation at the Women's Clinic—and maybe even before that—he wasn't alone in feeling the way he did.

He rubbed the soft skin of her palm, which was still within his grasp. "Y'can trust me with anything." He promised her, searching her face to see how far he could go without scaring her away for the umpteenth time—probably not far, considering all she'd just been through. He took a deep breath, shifting his weight forward. "Listen, Cordy… I think maybe there are some things we probably needa talk about, yeah?"

She nodded, her eyes still locked to his—and that's when he saw it—the flicker of reservation. The flush of her cheeks and drop of her head came next, and he knew he had hit the proverbial tipping point. She wasn't ready.

"But, maybe now's not exactly the best time." He let her off the hook, nodding to the muffled voices coming from Angel's office that indicated there was a minor altercation brewing within. She nodded slowly in agreement.

"Now isn't the right time." She agreed, but when she said it, it was clear she wasn't just talking about _now_ now. He could see that. Doyle felt his heart sink just a little. Not that he was surprised. If anything, he was surprised he'd gotten the heartfelt gratitude she'd just given him. Not to mention the admittance that there was, indeed, something for them to talk about.

Baby steps.

"You let me know when you're ready to have that talk then." Doyle said gently, patting her hand to let her know he was fine with that agreement. He could wait for her to come to him. And he'd be there waiting, no matter what… well, as long as no-matter-what didn't involve her dating other guys, because he probably _couldn't_ handle that.

A loud crash from Angel's office, caused them both to jump and lift their eyes to the door.

"Angel's never gonna forgive ya for that one, Princess." Doyle said with a chuckle, pulling his hand away and reaching once again for his newspaper.

Cordelia sighed, standing up from the couch and shaking her head in disappointment. "I just hope whatever Wesley broke was from _this_ century."

* * *

 **A/N- Thanks for reading, lovely people. There will be a brief hiatus next week for Thanksgiving and then I'll be back with part 1 of "She," which I assure you is a *much* better episode when you add some Cordy/Doyle into the mix. Hope you've all been enjoying so far. If you're in the US have a Happy Thanksgiving and if you're not, don't worry, I won't be gone long. ;)**


	16. She, Pt 1

**A/N- Sixteen years ago today (11/30) "Hero" aired and broke many hearts, mine included. Just thought I'd point that out. *sniffle* Now that I've made you reach for your box of tissues, I give you an adorable Cordy/Doyle chapter that woulda/shoulda/coulda been. And there will be many more to come. Why? Because this is my world, where Doyles never die...**

* * *

 **"She," Part I**

Cordelia turned up the music a little louder, grinning happily at the large volume of people now crammed into her living room. It was a great turn out for her party. Even Steve Paymer, David Paymer's brother, had shown up.

Then again, so had Wesley. He was still dancing away in the center of the room, wearing a thick cable-knit sweater that seemed inappropriately warm for the occasion. He only seemed to stop dancing in order to shove mini-Reubens into his mouth and terrify her female friends. She had started telling people he was a party crasher, just to be safe. She did have a reputation to uphold after all.

"Diego, pants on!" She called, noticing that wild-man Diego was doing a little too much unbuckling for her liking. At least he was having a good time, which was more than she could say about her boss, who looked like he would rather be drawn and quartered than be standing in the corner of her living room "mingling." She noticed Laura was trying to chat him up and Cordelia snorted. _Good luck with that_ , she thought.

Kelly came up beside Cordelia wearing a big smile. Kelly was nice; blonde, pretty and full of energy. Cordelia had met her at the gym and the two had started having Mochaccinos together in no time. "Great party, Cordelia." Kelly said, leaning toward Cordelia's ear conspiratorially. "You know so many hot guys. Why haven't you snagged one for yourself?"

Cordelia gave Kelly a weak smile. How could she explain her current choice to take herself out of the dating pool? Should she start before or after the part where she was recently impregnated by demon spawn? "You know what they say, looks aren't everything." Cordelia said with an uninterested shrug.

"Well, looks are a good start. Personality would help, too." Kelly indicated with a hopeful smile. "Actually, I do have my eye on someone."

"Oh yeah? Who?" Cordelia asked excitedly. She had never played matchmaker before, but she thought she'd be pretty awesome at it. Her ability to read people would make pairing them up easy peasy.

Kelly pointed in Angel's direction and Cordelia smiled knowingly. "Tall, dark and broody? Still hung up on his ex, don't bother."

"No, not the tall guy." Kelly clarified. "The other one. Pretty eyes, sexy accent, dimples."

Doyle. She was pointing at Doyle. He'd sidled up to Angel, probably encouraging him to be more social, as he oft did.

That was Doyle, a regular social butterfly. He seemed to be putting a lot of effort into being especially sociable tonight, probably for Cordelia's sake more than his own. She'd only complained to him every day leading up to the party that she was worried people wouldn't have a good time. So, what did Doyle do? Assign himself the mayor of party-ville and make it his personal mission to see that everyone there did, in fact, have a good time. Cordelia knew he could be charming, but she'd never really seen him in action. He seemed to flow easily from one person to the next, and always left them with a smile on their faces. Of course, he'd had a number of drinks, and if it wasn't for Diego, she was pretty sure Doyle would be getting the award for drunkest person in the room by the end of the night. But right now, he didn't seem drunk, he just seemed...fun. And Kelly was right, he was wearing a smile on his face that showed off the dimple on his right cheek—the one that always made Cordelia feel good when she saw it. Apparently, it had a similar effect on others.

She wondered how often he used that dimple at the poker table. It probably didn't work nearly as well when money was involved.

"He's really funny." It occurred to her that Kelly was still chattering on. "So, what's his deal? Is he single?"

"No." Cordelia blurted without hesitation. "Not available. Sorry."

"Oh, that's too bad." Kelly sulked. "Irish accents are my favorite."

"What about him?" Cordelia pointed out one of the guys from her acting class, hoping to distract Kelly away from her apparent Doyle fixation. The guy in question was one of the less obnoxious guys Cordelia had met in class, and he had pretty eyes as well—maybe not as pretty as Doyle's but, not many people did.

"He's cute." Kelly allowed, forgetting her prior crush quickly enough. "Single, I take it?"

"His name is Ben, he's a Leo, and you may recognize him from a fairly popular Hanes commercial—it's a national."

"Underwear model?" Kelly asked, with increased interest.

"T-shirts." Cordelia corrected. "And he's an actor, so he might be able to do a fake accent."

"Okay, I'm going in." Kelly enthused, giving her hair a wild toss and then pushing her way through the crowd in the general direction of Ben.

Alone once again, Cordelia had suddenly become very distracted by the thought that someone else at this party would be interested in Doyle. Someone else she knew may try and—God, forbid—hit on him. Maybe already had. Cordelia had taken him for granted, apparently. She'd assumed she was the only one who could ever possibly find him attractive. Well, okay, there was Harry, too—that had been eye-opening as well, but Harry was an older woman. She wasn't a friend or a peer.

After Angel walked away, Cordelia watched as Doyle made his way around the room, stopping to remind Diego that his pants weren't optional, and to give Wesley's dance moves an extreme side-eye. Then, much to her delight, he slipped into the spot beside her, formerly occupied by Kelly. Her breath caught as she felt his hand land on the small of her back, and he leaned in to talk close to her ear. "The party's a real success, Princess."

Of course, he had to be that close to her to be heard, but the hand on her back in that familiar way—it was probably a little too familiar for anyone in the room that wasn't Doyle, but she liked it coming from him. And as long as he stood beside her, touching her, there wouldn't be any other woman in the room flirting with him.

"I can see that." She said, smiling up at him. "Are you having fun?"

"Yeah, I'm having a great time!" He enthused, taking a sip from his beer bottle.

"You've been working the room hard." She noted and then reached out to give him a friendly pat on the chest. "You're off the hook, okay. Feel free to go brood in the kitchen with Angel and Dennis, if you want."

"I don't wanna brood. I wanna party!" He insisted, then tilted his head in further consideration. "Ya do have a point, though. I probably should go check on the big fella. But, not before I get a dance with the most beautiful woman in the room."

"Oh, yeah? Who's that?" She asked coyly. "You need me to introduce you?" She arched a brow at him, not able to wipe away the smile that had magically appeared as soon as he'd walked over. It must be that darn dimple.

"What d'ya say, darlin'?" Doyle asked, placing his beer bottle down on the mantle behind them. "Will ya dance with me?"

"Well… I suppose I could throw you a pity dance." She replied teasingly. "It's not like anyone else here is going to dance with a guy wearing _that_ shirt."

He laughed good-naturedly at her gentle ribbing and led her to the center of the room that was now doubling as a dance floor. "I thought you'd like this one."

She actually did sort of like the shirt he was wearing. It was a deep emerald green with a western cut and it brought out his eyes in stunning fashion. She probably should compliment it, so he'd be more likely to wear it again in the future. "It's less hideous than the rest of your wardrobe, but that's not saying much." She teased. Old habits died hard.

They started dancing together. The song that was playing was upbeat, but not so fast that they couldn't dance fairly close together. He wasn't a great dancer, but he wasn't bad either; he could mostly keep the beat and blend in without making a spectacle of himself. It felt really good to brush against him every now and then, and have his hands sit lightly against her hips, making sure she stayed relatively close. Another couple behind them were grinding up against each other, making Cordelia and Doyle's dance look quite chaste in comparison, with inches of space between them. He was grinning at her, and she found herself mirroring his expression. They were having fun together, and it felt like a breath of fresh air. Nearly all the nights she'd spent with him in the past were full of danger and doom. This was better. Much better.

The song they were dancing to ended and the tempo of the next one was much slower. Cordelia had anticipated him letting her go after one dance, but instead, as the music changed, he pulled her closer so their bodies were practically flush against each other. "One more." He spoke close to her ear, just audible over the music.

Although she was taken by surprise, she made no objection. Her arms naturally slid up around his neck, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. That had been natural, too, for no other reason than the fact that she couldn't bring herself to look directly at him while they were this close together. She soon became very aware of her heart hammering away in her chest, and she would have felt self-conscious about it, if not for the fact that she could feel his beating just as hard. She closed her eyes and listened to the drumming of their two heartbeats, and enjoyed the warmth of his body and safety of his arms.

It was so easy for her to tune out the rest of the party and be in a bubble of Doyle-ness. In that moment, it felt like he belonged to her; that they were a couple. And she had to ask herself why they weren't a couple, because it really felt like they should be. Oh right, her brain reminded her, it was her recent case of demonic-pregnancy and all the embarrassing things she'd said to him while under the thrall of pregnancy hormones.

He probably thought she was simply trying to recover from being mistreated and taken advantage of, not to mention the foreign invaders she'd had living in her body for a time. In reality, that stuff was easier for her to brush aside than it might be for most people. It royally sucked, but it was over. She hadn't cared much for Wilson in the first place, so his betrayal didn't sting as bad as it could have if she'd been emotionally involved.

On the other hand, she'd had to talk herself off a major ledge when it came to facing Doyle again. She had asked him to be the father of her children, for crying out loud. Not just asked, practically begged! How was she supposed to waltz back into the office, make fun of his ugly clothes and go on with her day? It had taken a lengthy rearview-mirror pep talk from herself, before she could convince herself to walk into the office and thank him for being the valuable friend that he was. The key was, never to discuss the things she'd said during the pregnancy; a rule he thankfully seemed to adhere to without her having to spell it out. He was good like that—he knew when not to push. And she was glad for it, because she really didn't want to have to push back the way she usually did. She wanted him as close as possible.

Like right now, for instance. This was good.

He'd told her to come talk to him when she was ready—and she was under no false impression as to the implied nature of that particular conversation. She hadn't talked to him yet. So, as a result, he was still giving her space. Space, she was beginning to think she didn't need... or want.

Okay, well, maybe he wasn't giving her much space at this precise moment...

But, he still wasn't hers. Not in any official sense.

Which is why, when the slow dance ended and the music tempo picked up again, he leaned down, thanked her for the dance and weaved his way out of the room, disappearing into the kitchen, where his broody best friend surely awaited.

Cordelia collected herself, trying to regulate her breathing and pulse after being so close to him for so long. She stepped off to the side of the dance floor and reached for an ice cube from the bowl nearby. She brushed it across her neck and collarbone, as Kelly came over once again. Kelly looked a little annoyed this time. "God, Cordy! Why didn't you tell me that _you're_ the one dating the Irish guy?!"

A slow smile spread across Cordelia's face.


	17. She, Pt 2

**"She," Part II**

Doyle wrinkled his face in disapproval. "You wanna hire him? To work _here_?"

Angel was leaning against the coffee maker, sipping from a mug. "He's been helping us a lot lately, Doyle. And, I get the feeling he doesn't have any money."

"You can say that again. I caught him sticking tiny Reubens in his pockets as he was leaving last night. Which, sadly, I can relate to." Cordelia piped in from across the room. She was bent over, watering one of the plants, which caught Doyle's eye and brought an admiring smile to his face. He always enjoyed watching her water.

He caught himself and returned his gaze toward Angel, who shook his head knowingly at Doyle's ongoing, unconsummated obsession.

"Angel, think about it. How are Cordy and I gonna make a living if we have to take a pay cut, huh?" Doyle questioned. "We're barely making ends meet as it is."

That caught Cordelia's attention, as he knew it would. "Pay cut? Who said anything about a pay cut?" She popped up, discarding the watering can on the corner of her desk. "Can't we just pay Wesley in tiny Reubens instead?"

"Neither of you will have to take a pay cut." Angel assured them. "We'll figure something out. We always do."

"I have a feelin' you'll be joining me at the races one of these days." Doyle remarked sarcastically, and finally waved his hand in begrudging agreement. "Fine. Hire the guy. Just don't expect me to like him. 'Cause that's never gonna happen."

Doyle had walked a few steps away from Angel and was standing in front of Cordelia, when his eyes went wide and he felt his knees buckle. "A little help here." He groaned a half-second before a rip-roaring vision tore its way through his brain tissue. He was vaguely aware of a rather slender pair of arms wrapping themselves around him in order to keep him from falling on his face.

Cordelia. She had caught him, and was somehow managing to keep him upright. Or mostly upright until Angel could slip an arm around from behind, taking most of the weight off her.

Doyle gritted his teeth through the pain of the vision and when it passed, it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation to find his two best friends wrapped around him, keeping him standing. At least it would've been pleasant, if not for the throbbing and the burning left behind in his head. They both assisted him to the couch, as per usual, and Cordelia left his side only long enough to retrieve a bottle of aspirin and a bottle of whiskey. He took both eagerly, swallowing the pills and chasing them with the burning liquid.

"What did you see?" Angel asked, leaning over him, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"And felt." Doyle choked out, rubbing his forehead in distress. "Did I ever mention how much I hate this gig?"

"Once or twice." Cordelia noted, sitting on the other side of him, taking the two medicinal bottles away from him. He hoped she knew he'd be taking that bottle of whiskey back in just a moment.

"You're going downtown. Ice factory on Fifth." Doyle sighed heavily. "Some guy's just been burned alive."

"I'll call Wesley." Cordelia offered.

"Do ya have to?" Doyle whined. "My head hurts enough as it is."

"Well, if he's gonna earn his keep around here, he might as well start now." She reasoned, pushing herself up off the couch and heading to her desk to make the call. "I mean, look at you, Doyle. You're in no shape to drive downtown."

Angel shrugged, "She has a point."

Doyle frowned to himself as he lay down on the couch, closing his eyes. Truthfully, he was relieved not to have to move after that particular vision. None of them felt like a picnic, but experiencing someone burning alive from the inside was a level of awful unlike most others.

* * *

"Aha!'

Doyle's eyes opened as a very annoying accented voice spoke far too loudly in the otherwise quiet room.

"That better be an 'aha' of triumph." Cordelia grumped, also somewhere in the room.

"I think I've located them. The Vigories of Oden Tal."

Doyle slowly sat up, rubbing his head. He looked at the impressive mound of books sprawled across Cordelia's desk and guessed the two figures hunched over them must've been at it for a while.

"Oh, look who decided to wake up and join the research party." Cordelia remarked coolly.

"How long was I out?" Doyle asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and looking for his watch that he had apparently forgotten to wear today.

"Long enough for Angel to find the immolated corpse, find the demon who made the corpse a corpse, and for him to chase said demon halfway across town." She explained. "Did I mention the demon is a total hottie? Because I'm pretty sure Angel did."

"That long, huh?" Doyle croaked, wondering how he could've slept for that long without being woken up. He moved his leg, knocking over the empty whiskey bottle at his feet. _Oh right, that explained it._

"Does Angel always allow this type of behavior in the workplace?" Wesley asked turning to look at Doyle with undisguised distaste.

"Hey, bud. I'll have y'know that my job happens to come in an all-five-senses experience. So, when you start your mornin' being burned alive from the inside out, we'll see if ya don't need a little something to take the edge off."

"Okay, that's enough, guys." Cordelia interrupted. "Let's focus here. Doyle, listen up. Angel's dealing with some demon tourists who came here through a portal and Wesley just figured out who they are." She looked at Wesley inquisitively. "So who are they?"

Wesley collected himself and turned away from Doyle, lifting one of the books sitting open before him. He cleared his throat and started again. "Of Oden Tal. The men are called Vigories. They have four distinct ridges on their foreheads, are said to be fierce warriors, and their women live enslaved to them."

"How very male chauvinist of them." Cordelia remarked, twisting her chair back and forth. "How are we supposed to track these guys down in L.A.? They're not exactly locals."

"Harry." Doyle blurted, finally starting to come to his senses.

Cordelia swung her chair in his direction and looked as if he'd terribly offended her. So, maybe he hadn't yet come back to his senses. "Are you still drunk?" She berated him. "I'm _Cordelia_ , not Harry."

Doyle would've chuckled at that if he wasn't worried he'd be incinerated by her deadly gaze. He slowly stood up off the couch and leaned against the side of her desk, using his most patient tone. "I know who y'are, love. I'm sayin' that's how we can find these guys. By talking to Harry."

"Oh." Cordelia said, taking it back down several notches, but still looking none too pleased by his suggestion.

"I'm sorry. Who is this Harry person?" Wesley inquired, not following the reason for Cordelia's sudden mood swing, or Doyle's sudden ability to be helpful.

"Harriet Doyle." Doyle clarified. "She's a—"

"The ethnodemonologist?!" Wesley asked excitedly, his eyes becoming round as saucers. " _That_ Harriet Doyle? Why, I'm a big fan of her work! Her research on the migration habits of Madderhorf Demons is unparalleled. I had no idea you two were acquainted."

"They were married." Cordelia clarified, considerably less enthusiastically.

That took Wesley aback, and actually got him to stop talking. Instead his mouth opened and closed several times while he tried to reconcile a scholar such as Harriet Doyle being married to a man who'd drunk so much whiskey for breakfast that he'd slept straight past lunch.

"Yeah, that Harriet Doyle." Doyle echoed, with a mirthless chuckle. "Who knew Harry had herself some fans?"

"Yay for Harry." Cordelia muttered under her breath. She wasn't really trying to hide her annoyance at the mention of Harry's name. If Doyle had thought better of it, he wouldn't have brought up her name at all… if it wasn't for the fact that Harry could actually help them.

"Well..." Wesley said, obviously still flustered, but also excited by the prospect of meeting someone he idolized. "I say, you should call her."

* * *

"Hey, Angel. Wanna introduce your friend? No wait, does she sometimes burn people alive for fun?" Cordelia stood just outside the elevator in Angel's apartment, arms folded over her chest and dissatisfaction etched over every inch of her.

It didn't help that Cordelia was already in a terrible mood. Doyle knew it had a little something to do with Harry's presence.

Speaking of Harry, she was there, too. She'd rushed right over as soon as he'd mentioned the portal-jumping demons who were fond of roughing up their women. She was well aware of their customs and wasn't a big fan. "You are of Oden Tal." She said, stepping forward to address the very attractive, scantily clad demoness they had just discovered lounging in Angel's living room. "Royalty, are you not?"

Doyle raised his brows. He knew Harry was into this stuff, but she really seemed to know her demons—even the ones who didn't originate in this dimension, apparently. Wesley, who stood beside Doyle, appeared to sigh in adoration. Doyle rolled his eyes. Hard. The clumsy Brit had done nothing but gush since Harry walked through the front door. Even if Doyle was relatively fine with Harry dating other people, he sure as hell wasn't fine with the thought of Wesley being one of those people. He made a mental note to nip that in the bud later.

For now, Doyle couldn't make too big a deal of Wesley's infatuation—not when Cordelia was already on edge and hyper-aware of all interactions Doyle had with his ex-wife. Cordelia had, in fact, already given Doyle an earful before they came downstairs, huffily pointing out that Harry seemed to jump at his call. He had tried to assure Cordelia that Harry's enthusiasm had nothing to do with seeing Doyle, and everything to do with helping the women of Oden Tal. Whether she believed that or not, was another story.

The fact that Cordelia was acting like a jealous girlfriend wasn't lost on him. On the one hand, it was incredibly flattering and reminded him of the conversation they should be having one of these days soon. On the other hand, it was ridiculously frustrating, because it was also a reminder that they _hadn't_ had any such conversation yet. He simply had no clue where he stood, and he could do very little to change that since he'd left the ball decidedly in her court.

Looks like he just had to navigate the white waters between his non-girlfriend and ex-wife without a life-jacket. Or a boat, for that matter. Good thing there were other things to worry about—like the demon from another dimension who enjoyed burning men alive as a hobby.

"I am Jhiera of Oden Tal." The female demon introduced herself, sizing up Harry approvingly. "You know of me?"

"I know of your dimension." Harry responded, her voice laced with sympathy. "I know what your men do to you."

"Then you know why I must stop them." Jhiera declared.

Doyle snuck a peek over at Angel, who was standing in the doorway to his kitchen, a healthy distance away from Jhiera. When they'd walked in, however….

Let's just say, Doyle had a feeling Angel was dying for a cold shower right about now.

As Harry had explained it, these women of Oden Tal had some kind of super-pheromones that worked quite aggressively on males—humans and demons alike. Doyle wasn't feeling it from where he stood at a pretty sizable distance, but he had a feeling he'd look a lot more like Angel, if he moved too close. That was the last thing he needed. Cordelia was already worked up over Harry; he didn't want to get himself burned alive for falling under the spell of some impossible-to-resist female demon, even if she was a looker. Burned alive by Cordelia, that was, not the demon.

He was so whipped.

"I think I can help." Harry was saying, as Doyle tuned back into the conversation. "There's a ranch out in the desert, just past Joshua Tree. The owner is a friend, and sympathizer of your cause. I'm sure he and his wife would be happy to take you and your girls in until they're able to adjust to this dimension."

Angel stepped forward, but not close enough to feel Jhiera's pull. "What do you say, Jhiera? Will you let us help you get your girls to safety? All I ask is that there are no more bodies. Your war needs to end in this dimension. Understood?"

"I make no such promises." Jhiera retorted. "But, I do need your help."

"I guess that's close enough." Angel said with a sigh. "Doyle, help Harry make the arrangements for Jhiera's girls. Cordelia, work on the transportation. Wesley, you're with Jhiera. Go to the spa where the girls are currently being held, and call me the second you see anything that might look like the Vigories making their move…oh, and, you should probably keep your distance."

"And what will you be doing?" Wesley inquired, looking questioningly at Angel.

Angel took in the many pairs of eyes now staring curiously in his direction. "I, uh… have…something... I'll be right behind you."

So, Doyle was right about the shower, then.

* * *

Harry hung up the phone and smiled up at Doyle from behind Angel's desk. "They're in." She stated unnecessarily. He had been sitting in one of the chairs across from her, and had already heard her entire side of the conversation, so he knew the outcome was positive.

"That's great. I'll let Angel know." He replied, his feet still resting lazily on the desk. "Thanks again for doin' this, Harry. You've been a real help."

"You know you can call me any time." She answered candidly. "Especially, if it involves oppressed female demons who need sanctuary."

"I'll keep that in mind." He said agreeably.

Harry's eyes darted through the clear pane of glass separating Angel's office from the reception area. The blinds had been pulled all the way up, so they had a clear view of Cordelia on the other side. She sat behind her desk making a phone call of her own.

"Francis, can I ask you something?" Harry asked, still looking out at the young woman beyond the glass.

"You're not gonna ask me for Wesley's phone number, right?" He asked dubiously. "Because that guy's a bigger tool than Richard. And, he's completely human. Not your type at all."

She managed to keep herself from rolling her eyes at him. "Wesley seems nice, but no, I have no interest in him or his phone number." She said with mild amusement, before shifting her tone to that of concerned curiosity. "Did I do something to offend Cordelia?"

Apparently, Harry had noticed the daggers coming out of Cordelia's eyeballs. Not that they were hard to miss.

"Ah…" Doyle pulled his legs off the desk, sitting up straight and trying to look like he had no idea what Harry could be talking about. "I don't think so. What d'ya mean?"

If Harry could sense that he was lying, she didn't let on. But, she knew him well, and he'd always been terrible at lying to her. "Last time we met, we got along great. I mean, she came to my bachelorette party and we had a nice time together. Now she seems kind of…"

"Grumpy?" Doyle suggested.

"Really pissed off." Harry countered. "She's barely said two words to me. I get the feeling she doesn't want me here."

Doyle nodded in feigned understanding, wondering what he could possibly say to this question that wouldn't land him in some kind of hot water, either with Cordelia or with Harry or, with his luck, both.

Harry was still looking at him questioningly even as she came to her own conclusion. "Is this about you?" She wondered. Doyle opened his mouth to answer, but Harry continued to fill in her own blanks. "She blames me for Richard trying to eat your brain, doesn't she?"

"I don't think there's any hard feelings where all that was concerned." Doyle hedged. "It's just… well, she's had a rough couple of weeks, that's all." He explained, sneaking a glance at the brunette in question and seeing her head bob up and down through the window as she talked to someone on the other line. Probably brokering them an impressive discount on a rental truck. "There was an incident with some demon spawn. Sort of an unwanted pregnancy type thing." He cleared his throat, thinking better of trying to explain that part. "Anyway, she's been understandably on edge as of late. I wouldn't worry yourself about it."

Harry eyed him skeptically, not looking entirely convinced he was giving her the whole truth.

"What kind of demon spawn?" She asked abruptly, and he could see the professional wheels turning in her head.

"Haxil Demon." He replied. "Hideous thing."

Harry's face altered into a horrified state. "That poor girl."

"Just do me a favor, don't tell her I told ya." Doyle pleaded. "She hates people feelin' sorry for her and I think y'see why she'd be a bit touchy about the subject, yeah?"

"Of course." Harry said, voice filled with compassion. "I hope you've been sensitive to her, Francis. That couldn't be easy for a young woman to go through."

"Ah, Cordelia's made of tougher stuff than most." Doyle assured her. "Did she ever tell ya she was raised on the Hellmouth?"


	18. She, Pt 3

**"She," Part III**

Cordelia sat on a large porch swing, pulling her jacket tighter around her body and folding her arms over it. Even with the thin material wrapped around her, she couldn't help but shiver. Ugh, why did the desert have to be so unreasonably cold at night? Shouldn't it be hot all the time? Isn't that the whole point of a desert?

She shifted her weight again, causing the swing to move underneath her.

They'd ran into some trouble at the spa when they were rounding up all the female demons of Oden Tal, but luckily they had gotten everyone out safely. As it turned out Harry's friend had a pretty nice ranch—very large, very private. Cordelia was more than a little impressed… but she was now more than a little exhausted, and more than a lot freezing. What was taking everyone so long?

She had a feeling Angel was bidding a too-fond farewell to the demon chick, Jhiera. Cordelia had seen the way those two looked at each other, and it had given her a case of the willies. Jhiera looked like she could make Angel feel very happy, and no one liked him when he was happy. Mostly because he was homicidal.

Then there was Wesley. Poor pitiful Wesley. At least he'd given up drooling over Harry in order to drool over the dozens of demon women he could never have. He was probably still inside, tripping all over himself for just one kiss. She really hoped they wouldn't be driving his charred remains home.

Finally, there was Doyle. She actually had no idea where he had gotten off to, although, his eyes had gone incredibly wide when he'd discovered that, in addition to everything else, this ranch had its own recording studio. As in, a soundproof room full of instruments. Yeah, if Cordelia had to guess, he was probably in there, doing his worst. She wasn't aware he could even play any instruments, or that he liked music so much. Apparently, the list of things she didn't know about Doyle was still quite lengthy.

"Cordelia." Harry's voice startled her. "Aren't you cold out here?"

Cordelia tensed up. She really had no desire to talk to Harry. Maybe she had liked her at first meeting, but that was when she was engaged to Richard. Now whenever Cordelia looked at the pretty, older woman, all she saw was that frozen moment in time—Harry's lips pressed against Doyle's. And worse than that, Cordelia could feel the visceral response she'd had to that moment. The aching, nauseous feeling that had followed her everywhere and led to some extremely poor decision making on her own part. It wasn't that she didn't believe Doyle, because she did. She was sure it meant nothing… but on the other hand, these two people had once meant everything to each other, so really, it could never mean _nothing_.

"I'm fine." Cordelia lied. It was easy to lie in the dark, when no one could see her face.

Harry moved closer and Cordelia could see she was carrying a mug with steam rising from the top. She took the open seat beside Cordelia on the porch swing and held out the mug toward Cordelia. "It's tea." She offered. "You should take it. I've already had plenty."

Cordelia hesitated, but a chill through her jacket convinced her that she'd only be spiting herself. She took the warm mug and held it close to her. "Thanks." She said, hoping that Harry would get up and leave now that she'd delivered the hot beverage.

"So… how've you been?" Harry asked with a friendly smile, making no movement to leave.

"Great." Cordelia replied tightly, raising the mug to take a sip. The hot tea felt good as it warmed her entire esophagus down into her chest. She was thankful for it, if not for the messenger that brought it.

" _Fine. Great_. I don't remember you being so monosyllabic last time we met." Harry said easily. "Are you angry with me for some reason?"

Cordelia nearly choked on her tea at the directness of Harry's question. And maybe, for the first time, she could see a quality they both shared that seemed to appeal to Doyle.

"Why would I be angry?" Cordelia asked, lacing her voice with saccharine. "It's a good thing Doyle called you, right? Or there might be a lot more crispy fried men out there tonight."

"Okay, so either you object to the lack of men being burned alive… or this is about Francis." Harry observed her silently in the dim light.

Cordelia didn't bother answering, which apparently was an answer for Harry. Cordelia heard her make a little noise that must've accompanied her epiphany. "So, it is about Fran— _Doyle_? Sorry, it's weird to call him that." Harry tilted her head to the side. "Now that I think about it, it's pretty obvious. I should've realized."

"What's obvious?" Cordelia asked defensively, whipping her head around to face the woman beside her.

"That you two are..." Harry raised her brows and gestured as if to say the end of that sentence was rather obvious.

"Co-workers." Cordelia filled in. "Friends. _That's it_."

"Well, I'm sure you're both those things, but you wouldn't be so territorial if that was it." Harry responded, leaning back in the swing and letting it rock a little back and forth.

"Territorial?!" Cordelia hissed. "You make me sound like a cat. Should I go pee on him?!" Cordelia's face blanched at her words. "Can you pretend I didn't say that last thing, because _ew_."

Harry was trying not laugh, but Cordelia could see her smile even in the dark. "Cordelia, I understand why you don't want to talk about this with me. It's a little uncomfortable for me, too. The last thing I want to do is meddle with Doyle's love life the way he meddled with mine. But, I promise you, I'm not a threat. We _can_ all be friends."

"Why did you kiss him then?" Cordelia blurted. She hadn't intended to ask that question, but there it was. "I mean, if you don't want him back… then why?"

Harry had stopped rocking the swing and it halted sharply. "He told you about that?"

"How else would I know?" Cordelia half-fibbed.

Harry's head dropped a little, and Cordelia could tell she was embarrassed. She almost felt a little bad calling the woman out on something that she clearly wasn't proud of. "I was sad." Harriet said softly. "And there was a time in my life when no one made me happier than Francis. For one small moment, I thought it was still there."

Cordelia stared at Harry, feeling herself fill with sympathy. "But it wasn't?"

Harry shook her head. "It was a memory. That's all." Harry explained, lifting her eyes back up to meet Cordelia's in the dark. "You can't kiss a memory, so you really shouldn't try."

Cordelia felt her head bob up and down involuntarily. She understood that much, if nothing else.

Harry let out a long breath and then laughed nervously, pulling herself off the swing. "He's all yours now. You can retract the claws—you have nothing to worry about, from me or anyone else. Doyle may have his flaws, but he has a good heart. Faithfulness, loyalty… those are his strong suits."

"But, Harry…" Cordelia heard herself call to the other woman before she could leave the porch. "We aren't together." She could hear the regret in her own voice as she admitted the truth. "We _are_ just friends."

"I haven't known you that long, Cordelia, but you don't seem to be afraid of speaking your mind. If you want things to change, then tell him." Harry said simply, finally turning her back and heading inside.

* * *

Doyle blinked several times trying to keep his eyes focused on Angel's taillights on the otherwise empty road ahead of him. It had been a long day made even longer by the lengthy drive back to the city. Angel was gunning it, trying to make it back before sunrise, but Wesley was in his passenger seat, just in case. Ready to trade places if the need arose along with the sun. Doyle drove the truck behind them with Cordelia sitting ramrod straight in the passenger seat—geez, if she was so alert, maybe she should drive.

They'd left Harry behind at the ranch. She'd been eager to help the Oden Tal women through their adjustment period and make further arrangements for their life here on Earth. He was also fairly certain she was discussing plans with Jhiera to get more women out of Oden Tal on an ongoing basis. There wasn't really much Doyle could say on the matter, since Harry was free to do her own thing. He just hoped she didn't get herself killed, sticking her nose into the middle of all that. Doyle would never forgive himself for involving her, if she did.

"Can you pull over?"

Cordelia had spoken abruptly. She hadn't so much as sighed in nearly an hour. He would've forgotten she was there, if it weren't for the fact that he was always very aware when she was nearby. His whole body knew. And, boy, did it like to betray him.

"Can't ya hold it, Cordy? We're not that far off from the city."

"Please, Doyle? Pull over. _Now_."

"Alright, alright. Hold your horses." He grumbled, seeing a sign for a small rest stop up ahead and putting on his blinker to let Angel know they were stopping.

Cordelia's cell phone rang as they were pulling off the highway. She picked it up with a reluctant sigh. "Angel, we're just stopping for a minute." She paused to listen. "Everything's fine. Keep going." Another pause. "Yeah, see you tomorrow." She hung up, sticking the phone back into her pocket.

"I'm impressed that Angel figured out how to use that cellphone ya got him. Guy's usually a real technophobe. He can barely work a TV remote… that's probably why he doesn't own one." Doyle commented, pulling the truck to a stop in the small, poorly lit rest area.

"I'm sure Wesley helped." She commented absently. She sat stock still for an awkward moment before unlocking her door and jumping down out of the cab of the truck. Doyle did the same—judging by the desolate surroundings, he probably shouldn't let Cordelia venture too far from the truck without him relatively close by.

As she came around the truck to stand beside him, he pointed toward a sketchy looking port-o-potty, which was apparently all this rest area had to offer in the way of toilet facilities. "Well, there ya go. I'll be right here, looking out for wolves… and serial killers. Maybe ya can make it a quick one, yeah? Otherwise Angel Investigations might be down two employees."

She eyed the offending port-o-potty with vague disgust, before turning back to him. She didn't move. Just stood and stared at him as if waiting for him to offer something else.

"There are no other options out here, Princess." He pointed out, waving his hand out into the darkness. "Not unless you're interested in that rather fine-looking bush over there?"

"I don't need to go." She revealed, still keeping her eyes focused squarely on him. "I just wanna talk."

Doyle couldn't hide the facial expression that told her just how crazy he thought that response was. "We've been sittin' in a rather uncomfortable silence for over an hour now. Ya couldn't have talked in the truck?!" She shook her head, not giving him a verbal reply, and he sighed in defeat. "Well, I suppose there are worse places to stop and have a chat. Like the bowels of hell, for example. That would be much worse. Okay… here we are and nothing's killed us yet. Start talking, love."

"I don't want space!" She shouted, causing him to flinch from the unexpected volume.

"Huh?" He gaped at her. They were standing fairly close together near the headlights of the truck, which were providing the majority of the light in the rest area. Both her facial expression and her body language were intense, to say the least.

"You've been giving me space, right? Because I got knocked up by a Haxil Demon." She demanded, her eyes flashing as she continued to use an unnecessarily loud volume. "I don't want it. I want the opposite of space!"

"The opposite of space." Doyle repeated, still not following her train of thought. He raised a puzzled brow at her as he searched his internal Cordelia lexicon for what that statement could possibly mean when translated to human speech. "Sure. Okay… It's just…" He gave her a bewildered shrug. "Do ya think ya could be a tad more specific about what you're wanting from me, darlin', 'cause, if you'll notice, there's not exactly a whole lot in the way of space here at the moment."

"Fine. Specific. I can do specific." She said, apparently speaking more to herself than to him. He could see that whatever she was trying to say was making her very anxious. She lowered her voice down to a more conversational level and tried again, opening her arms for emphasis. "Remember how you told me we could talk when I'm ready?…. Well, I'm _ready_."

As understanding finally dawned, his brows flew up to their maximum height. "Ah... so... so, this is _that_ talk, yeah?"

He watched as she nodded up at him bravely. "I guess I'm on a roll here, so I'll just keep going." She declared, squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath. "You listen to me, and look out for me, and you're always around when I need you. You make me feel good about myself. And you make me laugh. A lot. Whether you know it or not, you're my best friend in the world right now, Doyle."

Those words caused conflicting emotions to well up inside of him. Was the talk he'd been desperately waiting to have with her, merely a belated friend-zoning? "I'll do all that stuff no matter what happens." He promised, trying to hide the strain in his voice. So far, this talk wasn't going the way he'd hoped it might when he'd imagined it in his head. "Ya don't have to worry. If friendship's all you're looking for...I understand."

"It's not." She said apprehensively.

"It's not?" He heard a dumbfounded voice echo in the dark. It was, of course, his own.

"I mean, I want that stuff, too." She clarified, trying to continue down the path she had started on. "You shouldn't stop being a good friend, of course. But, there's something else I want."

A small kernel of hope had formed deep inside Doyle, and it was now growing into enormous proportions. He moved closer to her, not yet daring to touch her, but ready to, if she gave him a sign that he should. "Tell me what you want, Princess."

She gave him a sign alright.

"You." She answered, her eyes clear and bright, but also slightly fearful. "Us." She continued, a small hopeful smile forming on her lips. "I want there to be a more-than-friends _us_."

"Yeah?" Doyle swallowed the lump in his throat, and couldn't tell if he was grinning or not as he mentally pinched himself. "Was there… uh, anything else ya wanted to say?"

She had been smiling, but it became a little tighter as a touch of annoyance crept into her demeanor. "Anything _else_?! In case you hadn't noticed, I just _did_ all the talking, Doyle, while you stood there doing an impression of a large, badly-dressed guppy! Don't you have anything to say to _me_ now?! I mean… that was really hard for me, and it'd be great if you could manage to string a few sentences together to, y'know, _make_ _me feel better._ Preferably _before_ I die of embarrassment!"

He had to laugh at that. Only Cordelia could lose her patience with him while telling him she wanted to date him. But, first things first.

Doyle bridged the remaining gap between them, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her close against him. He heard her inhale sharply at the unexpected contact, and enjoyed seeing her eyes glaze over with desire as that familiar crackle of electricity took over for both of them. She fixated on his lips as they whispered down to her. "I only asked 'cause if you're done talking, I'd really like to kiss ya." He said, speaking close to her ear. "I'm hoping that'll make ya feel better."

Her eyes were wide and completely locked to his face as she nodded involuntarily. "I think that would help a lot, actually."

He kept one arm around her waist and lifted the other to cup her cheek, leaning down to finally do something he'd dreamed of doing since he'd first laid eyes on her. He leaned down and felt the inevitable fireworks as his lips made contact with hers.

He started slow and gentle, tasting first her lips and then her tongue, and letting her do the same. He didn't want to rush it—he'd only get one chance to kiss her for the first time. So far, he was feeling pretty good about it, despite the fact that they were standing in a sketchy highway rest stop with a rental truck idling beside them. The hand that rested on her cheek, slid further into her hair and gently applied more pressure, allowing him to deepen the already intoxicating kiss; he felt her respond in kind. Her arms traveled upward and landed around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly against her. That's when he finally pulled away—knowing that she definitely wanted more.

Doyle smiled down at her dreamy expression, positive that he was wearing the very same one. "What if I ask ya to dinner? Would that also make ya feel better?" He murmured, still keeping her body close to his.

She nodded again. No words.

His eyes flicked from her lips, which he was eager to reclaim, and her eyes, which held promises of many future kisses. "Cordelia, would ya like to go to dinner with me this weekend?"

"Yes." She said, a wide smile blossoming across her face.

He smiled wide to match hers, although he could never hope to light up a room quite the same way she did. He was taken by surprise when she pushed herself up on her tiptoes so her lips hovered less than an inch below his. "But for now, I think you need to keep making me feel better." She urged sweetly.

She didn't have to ask him twice. He gladly kissed her for the second time. And the third. And if it hadn't been for the persistent buzzing of the cellphone in her pocket, he may never have stopped.


	19. I've Got You Under My Skin, Pt 1

**"I've Got You Under My Skin," Part I**

"As first dates go... that was pretty horrific."

Cordelia was seated behind her desk wearing a sexy little black dress and a rather glum expression. The man seated across from her looked much the same, minus the sexy little black dress.

"Well, thanks, Cordy. Ya really know how to kick a guy when he's down." Doyle moped.

She sat back in her chair, crossing her arms and leveling him with a withering glance. "Did you honestly expect me to tell you otherwise?" She questioned, in her typical matter-of-fact way. "First, you pick a restaurant that you clearly couldn't afford. Ordering nothing but breadsticks and water—how transparent was _that_? You drink water, pretty much never." Doyle looked guilty as charged, but that didn't stop her now that she was on a roll. "And, as if that wasn't mortifying enough, you had a spaz attack in front of the entire restaurant, compliments of the Powers That _Be-really-untimely_ , which resulted in quite an impressive amount of broken dishes."

"Yeah...that was rather unfortunate. I'll be payin' off that meal for a lot longer than I thought." He agreed sulkily.

"You mean, _I'll_ be the one paying it off. It was my credit card we had to give them to pay for the damage. Restaurants aren't like loan sharks. They don't take IOUs and then send some big guys after you when you don't pay. They call the police and lock you up." Cordelia complained. "Or worse, they make you wash the unbroken dishes! Couldn't you have—I don't know—like, held it or something?"

"It doesn't really work that way, Princess." He replied with little humor. He looked and sounded exhausted, and not for the first time, Cordelia noticed what a toll the visions took on him.

She softened her countenance a bit, realizing she had been laying it on a little thick. "If all that wasn't bad enough. Here we are, finishing off our date at the office."

"Again, not something I could control." Doyle defended himself. "It wasn't the type of vision that could wait 'til morning."

"I know." She relented. "But you called Angel. He's out on the case. So, _why_ are we here again?"

Doyle gave her a worn out smile, rubbing a hand absently across his temple. "'Cause he needs us, darlin'. Even if it's just to be here when he gets back."

Her heart unexpectedly picked up its pace, as it so often did in Doyle's presence. Right now, she contributed her increased blood pressure to that loyalty of his, rearing its sexy head. He was nothing, if not that. Especially when it came to Angel. She found with Doyle that all of his most attractive features were not things she could see with the naked eye. Which wasn't to say that she didn't appreciate some of his physical attributes—his eyes, for example, were rather nice to look at. But, it wasn't his looks she found irresistible; it was the things underneath the surface that always seemed to make her stomach do flip-flops and her pulse race uncontrollably.

She gave him an exaggerated sigh, but it was mostly for show by that point. She knew he was right.

"Thanks for humoring me." The heaviness in his voice, took her by surprise and when she looked up, she could see how deflated he looked. "I promise I'll be paying ya back for the whole restaurant bit."

"I'm sure the next date will be a vast improvement." She replied nonchalantly, noting his visibly shocked reaction. "How could it not be, right?"

He blinked several times, and shifted in his chair in a way that made her wonder if he wasn't going to fall out of it. "You wanna go out with me again?"

"If you're asking for a second date, then I accept." She could feel the smile fighting its way onto her lips, but she held it back momentarily. "What? You didn't think you'd be getting off the hook that easy, did you? We're dating now, buster. On a continuing basis."

She watched as a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face and she finally allowed her own smile to surface. "There are ground rules for date number two, though." She clarified, pointing a semi-threatening finger at him. "Namely, you have to pick a place you can afford. And, if you do have a vision, you have to at least _try_ and move away from anything breakable. Deal?"

"Yeah." He agreed, overcome with relief. "It's a deal."

"Also..." She said, putting on a faux-serious expression and dropping her eyes to her lap. "I'd better get a goodnight kiss on the second date. Preferably on my doorstep or somewhere in the near vicinity."

He didn't drop his grin, but it changed into something decidedly more naughty. "You're disappointed ya didn't get kissed tonight, huh?"

"Maybe." She fibbed. If only he knew. She'd been left wanting more of his electrifying kisses ever since that night at the rest stop. If she wasn't careful, she could develop a real habit.

Cordelia lifted her eyes as Doyle moved from his chair and prowled around the side of her desk in a vaguely predatory manner. "The night's not over yet, darlin'."

She'd unconsciously swung her chair toward him as he sidled up beside her. He reached down and pulled her out of it, into a standing position. The chair slid away as he lightly knocked it aside, pulling her into his personal space. "Our date's over, though." She protested, even as her eyes became glued to his lips. "We're in the office, which means, this could be considered very inappropriate." Her breathing became more and more erratic the closer Doyle got. "But also kinda hot."

Next thing she knew, his hands were in her hair and his lips were on her mouth and he was taking what remained of her breath away.

And it was _totally_ hot.

It got a whole lot hotter as he guided her back a step so that her backside lightly bumped up against the edge of the desk. Then he was lifting her up _onto_ the desk, her legs naturally falling around his hips in a most unladylike manner. Not that she cared about being ladylike. She was drawing him closer, leaning back onto the desk, encouraging him to keep kissing her senseless, which he was all too willing to do. His lips were unrelenting, only pausing briefly to growl into her ear, "Would it shock ya to know I've had fantasies that looked a lot like this?"

No, it wouldn't. But, she had a feeling it would shock him to know that she'd had some of her own.

He kissed his way back to her lips, and she felt his right hand slide upwards along her left thigh, practically scalding her skin with the heat from his touch.

And that's when Angel must've walked in the front door. She couldn't recall hearing the door open, but she definitely heard it slam shut.

Doyle stopped kissing her, and pulled away wearing a rather dazed expression. As he slowly came back to his senses, he took a half-step back, allowing Cordelia to slide off the desk and adjust the bottom of her dress. She turned to see a very unenthused vampire glowering at the two of them. "Y'know, as bosses go, I think I'm pretty easygoing. I really don't have a problem with fraternization in the workplace, as long as it isn't taking place _on_ Cordelia's desk or anywhere else that clients might see. Or, more importantly, anywhere _that I might see_."

"We could always put a sock on the door, if ya like." Doyle suggested, looking every bit like the cat that ate the canary.

Cordelia wasn't feeling all that apologetic either. "Until you start paying us overtime for these ridiculously late hours, I think we should be able to fraternize wherever we want. Either that or you should tell the PTB to keep their visions to themselves during dinner dates!"

Doyle chuckled at that, before moving away from her, circling the desk toward Angel. "Speaking of. I take it ya saved the, ah… night?"

Angel was still frowning deeply at the two of them, but he allowed Doyle to redirect his focus to the more pertinent matter at hand. "I did. Saved a little boy named Ryan from being hit by a car."

"Super!" Cordelia chirped, looking for her handbag that she seemed to have shoved aside when Doyle "distracted" her. "Great job, boss. Knew we could count on you. Are we done here?"

"Afraid not." Angel continued. "I was invited in, patched up by the mom and invited to dinner tomorrow night. Got a real bad vibe from the dad while I was there, and it seemed like they were all afraid of him."

"Sounds like a problem that can be dealt with by more human channels." Doyle noted. "Maybe it's time ya tried calling Kate again."

"That's what I thought, at first." Angel said, as he removed a vile of glowing yellow fluid from his breast pocket. "Then I found this around the foundation of the house."

"Plankticine?" Doyle questioned, eying the vile.

"Plankton?" Cordelia asked confusedly from her place behind the desk. She had found her bag and clutched it under her arm, ready to go as soon as the boys stopped admiring the unspectacular vile of goo. "Like from the ocean?"

"Plankticine." Angel clarified. "Like from an Ethros Demon."

"It means someone in that house is possessed." Doyle elaborated, turning a worried gaze back on Angel. "Guess that means you'll be going to dinner tomorrow night, yeah?"

"We need to find a way to get the demon to reveal itself." Angel explained. "It'll take some research."

"Well, that sounds like a job for Wesley if ever there was one." Cordelia piped up. "He just loves digging through those stinky, dusty books any chance he gets. I'd be happy to call and disrupt his evening of excessive tea-drinking, if you don't think it can wait 'til morning?"

"It can wait." Angel allowed. "You two should go."

"C'mon, Princess. Let me get ya home." Doyle said with an amused chuckle. He was powerless to resist any joke that poked fun at Wesley and his painfully British ways.

Cordelia beamed in reply, happy to have successfully avoided a night full of research. She moved around the desk, headed for Doyle's side. "If Angel has dinner plans for tomorrow night, then I guess that means we're free to make our own." Cordelia hinted, batting her eyelashes in Doyle's direction as she approached him.

Doyle winked at her in reply. "In that case, will ya join me for dinner tomorrow? What's say we give date number two a go?"

"Only if you play your cards right." She retorted teasingly, linking her arm through the one he held out in offering.

"I always play 'em right." Doyle laughed good-naturedly, nodding a farewell toward Angel as he accompanied her out the front door.

"Somehow I doubt that." Her voice trailed behind her as they left for the night. "Goodnight, Angel. See you tomorrow."

* * *

Doyle hung up the phone and turned toward the two sets of inquisitive eyes seated before him. One of those pairs of eyes would probably be less than thrilled by what he had to say. The other pair of eyes belonged to Wesley, so Doyle ignored those.

"Bad news for our evening plans, love." Doyle announced regretfully.

"What?!" Cordelia asked shrilly.

"Not my fault." Doyle countered, holding his hands up in surrender. "Angel's bringing over some guests. Turns out the little boy is the one who's possessed by the Ethros demon. Guess your special-made brownies really did the trick." Doyle couldn't imagine anyone other than the demon eating those things. He was half-demon and he hadn't been able to stand the smell of them.

"I presume Angel's intending to perform an exorcism?" Wesley asked, finally making himself un-ignorable. "We'll need supplies. Not to mention a priest."

Doyle slid his eyes toward his least favorite co-worker with reluctance. "Angel said he's already got what's needed for the binding powder. Pretty sure a monkey could do that part. Think ya can handle it, Wesley?"

Wesley sat ramrod straight, giving off an air of defensiveness. "I'll have you know that I was head of my class in powders and potions."

"I didn't know you went to Hogwarts." Cordelia remarked, looking quite bored by the entire topic at hand and still miffed that her evening plans had been hijacked by a possessed adolescent.

"Pardon?" Wesley queried, not understanding the reference. Doyle found himself shrugging, not really sure what she was referring to either.

Cordelia looked up at the two of them and rolled her eyes exasperatedly. "Hogwarts, as in Harry Potter. Popular children's book. Ugh, forget it, if I have to explain the joke then it's not worth it."

"Yes, well... in any case, I am far more skilled in the magic arts than Doyle, here, gives me credit for." Wesley stammered, invoking very little confidence.

"Then go prove it." Doyle rebutted, pointing toward Angel's office and the elevator that lay within. "But, if ya turn yourself into a toad, don't expect me to help turn ya back."

"And what, pray tell, will you be doing? Aside from ogling Cordelia?" Wesley asked prissily. Most things he did were prissy, as far as Doyle could tell.

"I'm goin' to church." Doyle replied, leaning over to surprise Cordelia with a quick peck on the lips, before proceeding toward the exit. He really liked that he could do that now, without being in danger of a smack. "I'll be back soon to continue with my ogling."

As he opened the door to leave, he could see Cordelia crack a smile, even while she continued to sulk over their broken plans.

* * *

Doyle stood staring at the high arched entryway of St. Vincent's. He didn't really want to walk inside. He hadn't been in a church in a long time—since he discovered what he really was. He pretty much figured he'd be struck down with a bolt of lightning if he so much as tried. Granted, he'd always been a demon, even before he knew that was what he was. And it had never stopped him from attending Sunday mass with his mom when he was a boy, or from making care packages for the poor in the church basement as a teen.

No, he wouldn't be struck down. Not for being a half-demon anyway. Although, he wasn't too sure how God felt about all his drinking, gambling and general debauchery.

He put that out of his head as he made his way over the threshold into the empty church. Almost empty. There was one, elderly nun kneeling in the front pew; she turned when she heard Doyle's footsteps echoing through the cavernous room. He approached her slowly and respectfully, hoping she wouldn't be able to see him for what he was.

"Ah, sister? Good evening to ya. Sorry to disturb your prayers." He said, smiling down at her. He hoped his dimple was showing; that always seemed to work with the older ladies. He'd used it on his grandmother a lot as a kid.

"No, not at all." She said, meeting his eyes with a warm, welcoming smile and slowly rising to stand. "How can I help you?"

He breathed out a sigh of relief. Not sure why he imagined this holy woman being able to see what most human beings could not. To her, as to them all, he was one of them. As long as he didn't sneeze... which, dammit, was someone burning incense? As his nose started to itch, he hoped he could make this fast. "I'm looking for Father Fredericks. Do y'know where I might be able to find him?"

"Oh, dear. I'm terribly sorry." She fretted, and he could see the sadness that came to her eyes. He knew he wasn't about to get good news. "He passed away about six months ago. He's buried 'round back, if you wish to pay your respects."

Now it was Doyle's face that fell and the nun seemed concerned. "Father Anthony is in the rectory. I could fetch him for you, if that would help."

Doyle swallowed heavily, knowing his request would probably offend and appall her, but having little choice in the matter. "Is Father Anthony familiar with the rites of exorcism, by any chance?"

The nun said nothing for a moment, her demeanor shifting slightly, but she didn't seem nearly as appalled as Doyle had guessed she would. "The church no longer condones such things." She said calmly. "I see now why you were searching for Father Fredericks."

Doyle nodded. "There's a child. Possessed by an Ethros demon."

Her eyes widened, just barely so. Doyle saw the fear that lived within them. "The very same type of demon that took our Father Fredericks from us. Very powerful. Very dangerous." She said sympathetically. "Father was able to rid the demon from its host, but not without paying the very highest personal price. There are no others here that can help you, I'm afraid."

Doyle gave her a small, but thankful smile. "In that case, I ask that ya spare a few extra prayers, sister. I think I'll be needing 'em." He bowed his head in a sign of respect before turning to leave.

"Those doors are always open to you, young man." She called from behind him, causing him to pause and turn back to meet a face full of compassion and sincerity. "You think yourself unworthy, but that is because you judge yourself as man judges. God sees not as man sees... the Lord looks at the heart."

He wasn't sure if she saw anything in him, besides the face of a sinner, but her words tugged at him all the same.

He would never admit it out loud, but he certainly hoped her words were true.


	20. I've Got You Under My Skin, Pt 2

**"I've Got You Under My Skin," Part II**

"So, that's it. Father Fredericks was the only game in town? What do we do with the real-life horror movie we've got going on in there?" Cordelia demanded in her customary blunt manner, pointing toward the bedroom where Ryan Anderson was currently chained to Angel's bed with his nervous parents seated nearby. At least, they didn't have to worry about either of them going near the boy again—not after he'd nearly choked the life out of his mother.

Doyle and Angel were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, while Cordelia hovered in the doorway, sneaking peeks toward the bedroom to make sure no one else was getting almost-murdered. Wesley sat in the other room, several ancient texts deep. He was determined to find out everything previously written about Ethros demons in the hope that he'd discover another solution—one that didn't involve a priest.

"I'll do it myself." Angel said without missing a beat. "We have all the supplies."

"Is that right?" Doyle asked skeptically. "Ya do realize that a big part of the job involves holding a crucifix over the boy's head. Not sure you've got the proper skillset for that, mate."

"We can't do _nothing_." Angel insisted. "I brought that family here for help. We have to perform the ritual. There's no other way."

Doyle stared long and hard at Angel's determined face, feeling like he was reading the subtext underneath, and not liking it one bit. Then again, maybe he wasn't reading anything from Angel, maybe he was just talking himself into doing something he didn't really think he was up for. "I'll do it."

"Oh, _hell_ no!" Cordelia shrieked from the kitchen doorway, where she'd been pacing. "You're not volunteering for certain-death-duty!" She turned away from him, mumbling under her breath. "Geez, if you don't want a second date just tell me, don't get yourself killed."

"No, Doyle, it's too dangerous." Angel said, slightly more equitably than Cordelia.

"Ya said it yourself, man. We can't do _nothing_." Doyle argued, appealing to Angel and leaving Cordelia to simmer on her own. "That's an innocent kid in there. Got his whole life in front of him. We can't let some demon take that away from him."

Doyle knew as he spoke, he wasn't just talking about the demon inside the boy anymore. He was talking about the demon inside him—the demon that _was_ him—the one that had ruined his life. Only now was he starting to get a little piece of something resembling a life back, and the main reason for that was his day job… er, night job. Squashing other demons like bugs. He didn't just want to save this kid; he needed to save this kid.

"I believe I know how the priest was killed." Wesley's voice interrupted Doyle's internal pep talk, reminding him just what he'd volunteered for. "When an Ethros is cast out it immediately seeks another body to inhabit. The Demon is expelled with such force that the newly inhabited rarely survives."

"Oh, God." Cordelia whimpered, moving to stand behind Wesley and peer over his shoulder. "That sounds way worse than what happened in the movie."

Doyle's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed a rather large lump. "That could be a problem."

"One, not without a solution." Wesley explained excitedly. "If we can locate an Ethros Box and have it on hand during the ritual, the demon will be attracted to _it_ , rather than to a body. Once inside the box, it will remain trapped for a thousand years, which sounds like a rather appealing resolution, if I do say so myself."

Cordelia pointed to something on the page Wesley was reading from. "An authentic Ethros Box is made of 600 species of virgin woods and handcrafted by blind Tibetan monks? Not exactly something we can find at Pottery Barn."

Doyle tilted his head, impressed with Wesley's keen research in spite of himself. "Think I know a guy who might have one."

"Better call him." Angel said simply, nodding approvingly at all of them.

"Wait a sec." Cordelia's panicked voice halted Doyle before he could even start to move from his seat. "This is still really dangerous, Doyle. What if the box doesn't work? What if something else goes wrong? I don't want you to do it."

Doyle hardly had time to be flattered by her concern over his wellbeing, before Wesley ruined it. "I must say, I agree with Cordelia. Doyle would be a poor choice to perform the ritual."

"And why's that exactly?" Doyle demanded, trying to rub the stress out of his temples.

"For starters, I've heard you speak Latin." Wesley said pompously.

Okay, Wesley had him there. Doyle's Latin was pretty terrible. Maybe it'd worked in a pinch when they were cleansing Cordelia's apartment of the homicidal ghost of Maude Pearson, but it may not be up to snuff to exile a powerful Ethros demon from a human body.

Wesley really should've stopped making his case right there, because his next words had a decidedly opposite effect. "And it's a religious rite. I hardly think a demon would be an effective substitute for a member of the clergy."

Doyle's fists clenched uncontrollably, and his chair made a horrible noise as he scraped it back against the floor upon rising. Angel had leapt to his feet along with Doyle, reaching out an arm to keep Doyle from lunging at Wesley. Meanwhile, Cordelia had stepped away from them all, looking at the floor—maybe wishing she could burrow herself through it and disappear.

"I'm human enough to perform the ritual." Doyle growled. "And demon enough to kick your ass for implyin' otherwise."

Wesley looked fairly apologetic, perhaps, not realizing what a sore subject he had broached. "I just meant… uh… It may work, but why risk it when I can perform the ritual myself?"

"You?" Doyle scoffed. "Ya couldn't evict a cockroach from this office, much less an Ethros demon."

"Doyle." Angel warned under his breath.

"As I've told you before, I am far more skilled in this area than you know. I do believe I can perform the ritual successfully." Wesley replied adamantly, standing his ground.

Doyle's eyes were locked angrily to Wesley's in battle. He wouldn't have been so desperate to perform the ritual himself, if it weren't for the implication that he somehow _couldn't_. As if, him being able to do it was suddenly emblematic of just how human he was.

"I think Wesley should do it." Cordelia piped in and Doyle's eyes flicked toward her, silently questioning her betrayal. "Not because you're not human enough, Doyle. Because you _are_ human enough to die if something goes wrong." As an afterthought she turned back toward Wesley. "No offense, Wesley."

Doyle turned to Angel, searching his eyes for his thoughts on the matter. What he saw there caused him to finally step back, making it clear he had no intentions to argue any further. "Guess I'll be getting that box, then." He gritted to no one in particular.

As he stormed toward the elevator, he felt Cordelia's concerned eyes follow as he passed. He didn't stop to reassure her, but his anger wasn't directed at her—he knew why she didn't want him to do it. He wasn't even angry at Wesley, not really. He was just angry. Just as he'd always been.

* * *

Doyle leaned beside Angel watching the smoke waft from the roof of the Anderson home. They were both feeling equally defeated by the night's events. They'd never even had a chance to stop and celebrate the fact that they'd been able to successfully exorcise the demon from Ryan, without any of them ending up dead… not before they'd had to chase said demon, and find out an even more awful truth.

The boy was far worse than the demon.

All of it had been for nothing. All the in-fighting. All the facing of personal demons. None of it had made anything better this time. No innocent soul had been saved during this battle because there was no soul to save.

Kate had come; she had taken the boy away. The rest of his life would probably take place inside an institution. At least his family was alive, if not whole…

Doyle sighed heavily. He had a lot of air he wanted to clear, some with Wesley, more with Cordelia. But, most with the friend standing in silent observance beside him.

"The box was supposed to work." Doyle broke the silence, figuring that was as good a place to start as anywhere.

"I didn't think you'd be spiteful enough to try and get Wesley killed." Angel assured him.

"I'm not." Doyle confirmed. "I wouldn't. I was told the Shorshack Box would work the same way."

Angel nodded, taking Doyle at his word, as Doyle knew he would.

"But, ya heard the things the demon said to him, yeah?" Doyle went on. "Have to wonder why you'd wanna guy like that around on a permanent basis."

"He made some mistakes, but what happened with Faith… it wasn't Wesley's fault." Angel defended. "And he's helpful, Doyle. We wouldn't have been able to do what we did tonight without him. That's the truth and you know it."

"I wasn't talking about the failed-Watcher bit. I was talking 'bout the part where he's planning to kill ya." Doyle responded, wrinkling his brow in severe disapproval.

"He's not planning to kill me." Angel corrected, before turning to Doyle to hammer home his point. "But, he's willing to—and that's a good thing."

Doyle shook his head in puzzlement, wondering how that could possible be a quality Angel wanted in an employee… or a friend, which is what Doyle suspected Wesley had become by this point.

"He'd be able to do what I know you wouldn't. You're too close now." Angel explained, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You care too much. You'd _hesitate_ , Doyle, and it would cost you."

As Doyle looked up at Angel, he couldn't argue the point. He had never met Angelus, and he hoped he'd never have the pleasure. But, if he was ever faced with that soulless creature who inhabited the body of the man he now called his best friend he couldn't guarantee he'd be willing to get all stake-y.

"That's a dark thought, man." Doyle remarked, breaking the tense silence that had blanketed them once again. "While we're on the subject of killing each other—that demon seemed to think you were feeling awfully guilty for getting me killed. Strange, seeing how I'm not dead and all."

"Must've been referring to the other timeline." Angel concluded. "Some demons are more sensitive to temporal shifts than others."

"Musta been." Doyle said skeptically, observing the ever-stoic Angel. It was hard to tell what the vampire was thinking at any given time. Doyle probably had a better idea than most. "Y'know, there was no truth to that, yeah? If I'd have gotten myself killed that night on the Quintessa, or killed today playing hero-exorcist, or should it happen in the future, it won't be on you, man. It just comes with the gig. Soldiers tend to die."

"You're not a soldier, Doyle." Angel argued.

"Yeah, well, messenger, then. And guess what? Those tend to die even faster than soldiers." Doyle mused unhappily.

"You're my friend." Angel said simply. "Which means I won't let you die. Not without doing anything and everything to stop it."

"Don't think I'm not appreciative of that fact." Doyle replied. "The feeling's mutual, if ya hadn't noticed. And for the record, I'm not planning on getting myself killed anytime soon. I have quite a lot to live for these days."

Angel smiled knowingly. "I'm glad things are going so well with you and Cordelia." His expression changed to one of unease. "And now I'm pretty terrified of what she'd do to me if I ever _did_ let you die, so let's make sure that doesn't happen, okay?"

* * *

He led her through the darkness, climbing up the rough terrain. He felt her stumble, and paused to help her regain her footing, holding her hand tighter.

"Doyle." Cordelia warned through gritted teeth. "I'm pretty sure whatever we're doing is illegal. If we get arrested, then you will have succeeded in making date number two _way_ worse than date number one. Something, up until this point, I didn't think was possible."

Doyle chuckled down at her in the darkness. He knew this date was rather unorthodox as dates went, but he had faith that she'd enjoy herself. Assuming he could get her to the location in question, without her falling face down in the dirt. A challenge considering they were climbing a rather sizable hill with no light to guide them aside from the moon and stars above.

"Alright, so technically, we aren't supposed to be in the park after dark, but it's not exactly a felony offense." Doyle assured her. "Misdemeanor at most… Ya trust me, yeah?"

He paused again, turning to find her eyes in the darkness. As she met his eyes, looking stunning even in her casual attire, he could see that the answer was yes. And he could feel it when she squeezed his hand reassuringly. She might like to complain, but she was with him. All the way.

As he came to a wall, he stopped and waited for her to scramble up beside him. "Okay, almost there." He said. "Just one more obstacle between us and the perfect date."

"Perfect?" She eyed him dubiously. "I'm sweating, Doyle. _Sweating_."

"Alright, up and over." He said, laughing at her annoyance. He lifted her up, so she could get a grip on the wall and kept his hands on her bottom as she pulled herself up.

"There are easier ways to cop a feel." She complained, even as she got her leg up and successfully landed on the other side of the stone wall. Doyle hurriedly hoisted himself up so he could join her on the other side, anxious to see her reaction.

As he landed beside her with a thump, he caught himself and stood up to see her gazing at the space in front of her, mouth slightly open in quiet awe.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful." She breathed.

He didn't bother looking anywhere other than at her. "Neither have I, Princess." He agreed.

They were standing on the rooftop of the Griffith Observatory, which was completely empty aside from a small blanket and a picnic basket set beside it. The sky was full of stars and the moon was nearly full. No additional lighting was needed under the glow of the night sky. As if that wasn't enough, the entirety of Los Angeles was sprawled below them—the lights twinkling as if they were mirroring the stars above.

He moved closer to her, slipping an arm around her waist. She leaned into him, smiling wide. "You set up a picnic for us? Up here?" She couldn't contain the amazement in her voice. "It _is_ perfect."

"Ah… so ya do like this better than date number one, after all." He guessed.

"I do. I definitely do." She said laughing happily, before turning to give him a crooked gaze. He noticed the shake of her head and tilted his own head in question. "What?" He asked.

"I didn't know you had it in you. I mean, this is really _romantic_ , Doyle." She enthused. "You just don't seem the type, that's all."

"I don't know what type ya thought I was, darlin', but seeing how you're here with me, I won't complain too much about that little detail." He chuckled good-naturedly. "We still have a lot to learn about each other, yeah? That's the whole point of dating."

"I was never sure there actually was a point." She commented dryly.

He quirked a brow at her, seeing that she was being completely serious. "Ah… well, look how much you've learned about me in two dates." He said. "For example, now ya know I can be incredibly romantic, when properly motivated."

"I'm guessing you're motivated to get lucky, is that right?" She speculated, wearing a smile that told him she wasn't completely opposed to the idea herself.

"I could deny that, but I'd never insult your intelligence in that way." Doyle admitted with a guilty chuckle. "But, the thing about getting _lucky_ is that it's not something that's implied, if ya get my meaning. I didn't bring you up here 'cause I want anything from ya. I brought you up here 'cause I wanted to share something with ya—in this case, I'm sharin' my favorite view in town."

He watched as maybe the biggest and brightest smile he'd ever seen spread across her face, which was really saying something because most of her smiles were big and bright. This one supremely overshadowed anything he could see glowing overhead.

Cordelia reached out and took his hands, pulling him closer. "Thank you." She whispered, before kissing him sweetly on the lips. It didn't last long, but it left him feeling warm all over. After that, she tugged him toward the blanket. "Let's see if there's anything edible in that picnic basket, shall we?"

"Don't worry, love, I was careful not to pack any of those brownies of yours."


	21. The Prodigal, Pt 1

**"The Prodigal," Part I**

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

 _"_ _What happened?! Are you okay? Open the door, please?"_

 _He sat huddled in the small room, his back pushed up against the door so he could feel the vibrations as she pounded her fists against it._

 _He couldn't open the door. He wouldn't. Never. He'd just have to live the rest of his pathetic existence in this bathroom, because there was no way he could go anywhere looking like this._

 _He put his hands back up to his face, feeling the sharp points scratching against his palms. He pushed against them, hoping they'd retract into his face just as suddenly as they'd appeared. He pushed so hard that he was certain he drew blood, but it didn't change. He didn't change._

 _A hysterical sob escaped from his throat._

 _"_ _Francis! Answer me! Please!" Harriet sounded panicked now. Perhaps seconds away from knocking the door down to get to him, if she had the strength to do so._

 _Had she seen it? Had she seen the reason he'd leapt from the bed and locked himself in the bathroom without so much as a word? The room had been dark, so maybe she hadn't seen. Maybe she didn't know._

 _No, she couldn't have seen. If she had, there was no way she'd be so desperate to be near him._

 _Turning into some kind of monster was bad enough. He wouldn't survive if the woman he loved saw him like this._

 _"_ _Go away!" He growled back. Was his voice different too, or was that just the fear and the adrenaline and the tears?_

 _"_ _Francis, tell me what's wrong!" She pleaded. "You're scaring me!"_

 _Scaring her. He was scaring her. If she thought she was scared now, with the door closed between them…_

 _"_ _I don't know what's wrong with me." He choked back._

 _Now she sounded scared when she answered. "Should I call 911? Are you sick?!"_

 _Was he sick? Oh God, he hoped so. But, what kind of illness could do something like this?_

 _He was sobbing now, audibly sobbing and he knew she could hear him. Her voice was frantic. "Please, Francis, open the door. Whatever it is, I just wanna help."_

 _"_ _Harry…" He cried her name pathetically, wanting so badly to have her hold him and comfort him and tell him it would be alright, but how could he do that? What if he hurt her? Or infected her? Or worse._

 _"_ _Allen Francis Doyle." She yelled through the wooden door. "I'm counting to five. Do you hear me? If you don't open up by then, I'm calling 911!" He knew she wasn't bluffing. Harry didn't bluff. She left that up to him._

 _"_ _NO!" He wailed, pulling himself up to a standing position, but keeping his back against the door. "Please don't?"_

 _"_ _One!"_

 _He looked toward the window, wondering if he should climb out. But, he was three stories up without a fire escape. And where the hell would he go looking like this?_

 _"_ _Two!"_

 _He could just throw himself from the window. That was an option, it would save whoever she called the trouble of killing him on sight. But he didn't want to die. Certainly not by his own hand. It was a sin and he didn't want to go to hell._

 _"_ _Three! Francis, please!"_

 _The desperation in her voice was the clincher. He could tell she was crying out there. He'd never been able to stand up to Harry's tears. When she cried, he'd give her just about anything in the world to make her stop._

 _"_ _Four!"_

 _He flicked the lock open and stepped away from the door. Keeping his back turned and moving as far away from it as possible. Her counting had stopped the moment she heard the telltale click of the lock._

 _He listened as the door slowly creaked open behind him._

 _"_ _Francis…?"_

* * *

Doyle rolled over, nearly falling off his couch, where he'd slept yet again. It was becoming a nightly habit; he could hardly remember the last time he'd actually slept in his bed. Or slept in something other than his clothes, for that matter.

He sat up slowly, feeling the slight throb in his temple that lingered from the before-bed bottle of Scotch. That had become a nightly habit, too. One that he knew wasn't good for him, but it was the only way he could stop the dreams.

Dreams. He couldn't call them that. He'd call them nightmares, but that wasn't accurate either. No, they were memories. Memories that liked to surface every now and then, liked to haunt him. Especially when things were looking up, when he found ways to hope again… that was always when the memories seemed to do their worst. As if they had to dig their way back to his consciousness and remind him that he wasn't free of them, he wasn't whole…

Doyle swung his legs over the side of the couch and sat straight up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and scratching at his scalp. As he trudged through the mess on the floor toward the shower, he imagined what Cordelia would say if she saw the place—sure, she'd seen it before, when they weren't dating. She hadn't been impressed then. Now it looked worse; it _was_ worse. She had fallen for him—she looked at him and she saw a man she wanted to be with. Yet, he still lived like this underneath. Because this was who he still was underneath. He was dreading the day she saw that.

As he stepped under the current of hot water and let it roll over his head and down his body, he wished it could cleanse him inside as well as out. He wished it could… baptize him.

That's where all these thoughts had started. All these doubts. All these memories. It was the exorcism, and his little trip back to church. It was Wesley's insistence that being a demon meant he couldn't perform a religious rite—and if that was true, then being a demon probably made all the sacraments he'd ever received null and void, beginning with his baptism. He was unclean. He always had been. He just hadn't always known it.

Which is why he'd once dared to live like a man.

If he'd known from the start that he was damned, maybe it would've been better. He would've never expected anything; never been disappointed. By the time he started living like the outcast he was, it was too late. He'd had it all, and he'd lost it all. Disappointment didn't even cover it. Devastation was a little closer.

Then one day, the Powers That Be had punished him, which as much as it sucked, had also given him something to live for. If he could be punished, then he could atone. He could be forgiven. It was the most human thing that had happened to him since he'd found out he was something _other than_. It had given him a path to follow and on that path he found a way to crawl out of the dark cave he'd been living in. He found hope. He found desire.

Which is exactly why the memories had come back with such a vengeance. Reminding him why he should never hope. Never have expectations. Reminding him that no matter how much he pretended to be a man, he would only ever be half of one. The other half would always be damned to hell.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, yanking a towel off its hook. He felt the vision a second before it hit, and was able to sink down to the floor before he lost control of his nervous system. Good thing, because it was a vicious one that sent his head reeling backwards, nearly slamming against the toilet seat. If he'd been standing, who knew what kind of injuries he would have sustained.

Once the vision passed, Doyle found himself lying naked on the cold tiles of his bathroom floor. He grabbed the towel that had dropped nearby, wrapping it around himself and crawled his way into the other room to dial the phone. He was fairly certain this vision couldn't wait until he got to the office. In fact, he had a feeling he wouldn't be headed to the office at all.

"Doyle?" Angel's sleepy voice answered on the third ring.

"How'd y'know it was me?" Doyle asked into the receiver.

"Who else calls me at this hour?" Angel responded. "What is it?"

"A demon's about to raise hell on a train full of morning commuters." Doyle answered. "I'll meet ya at the station on Santa Monica and Vermont."

"Alright. What am I looking for?" Angel asked. Doyle could hear some shuffling in the background, meaning the vampire had probably gotten out of bed and was now scrambling for some clothes.

"Just listen for the sounds of people screaming. I'm sure you'll find it, yeah?"

Doyle hung up the phone and hurried to get dressed. Damned for eternity or not, he still had a job to do.

* * *

Angel watched as the demon flipped Doyle over, landing him flat on his back and raised its foot to crush his friend's skull. Angel was racing forward to stop it, but he knew he would've been a second shy… if the thing hadn't hesitated. Probably on account of all the spikes that had reflexively appeared on Doyle's face as he hit the ground.

That was all it took for Angel to catch the thing by its rags and yank it away from Doyle's prone form. It stumbled backward and Angel wrapped his hands around its neck and twisted with all his might. It snapped with a final, sickening crack and Angel let the body drop at his feet.

"Well, I guess I can forget about reading him his rights."

It was Kate's voice. She had appeared out of nowhere. And she was staring warily at the very inhuman remains at Angel's feet.

"It's um... it's not a person, is it?" She asked uncertainly.

"No." Angel replied, adding the second part needlessly. "Demon."

She was staring hard at the corpse, keeping her hand loosely trained over her gun. "Is it...?"

"Dead? Yeah, Kate, it… it's dead." Angel sighed. He supposed he should be relieved she was speaking to him at all, but instead, he was disheartened by the tension. Since she'd run him through with the 2x4 while killing Penn, he'd barely spoken to her. Not because he didn't want to, but because he figured she couldn't handle the reality of his world. Not sure she wanted to.

"So they… so they die then." She said, appearing relieved by that notion.

"Yeah." He said, shifting his weight.

He watched as she let out a very sizable sigh of relief. "Sorry, I guess I'm still having a little trouble with this otherworldly stuff."

"Right." Angel said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Although demons aren't technically otherworldly. I mean, in fact they were here—"

His sentence died on his lips as Kate pulled her weapon and aimed it at something over Angel's shoulder. "Behind you!" She shouted as she cocked the pistol.

Angel knew there was nothing behind him… aside from Doyle.

He turned to see Doyle cowering in the shadow of the subway tunnel. He had pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, and may not have even realized he was still wearing his demon face until Kate pulled on him. He was now frozen in place; not even daring to breathe.

Angel stepped calmly in the line of fire, gesturing for Kate to lower her weapon. "Don't. That's… he's a good demon, Kate."

"Good demon?" She asked, still keeping her weapon raised. "Isn't that a contradiction?"

"Not if you believe I'm good." Angel countered, moving a step closer to her. "Please. Put the gun down. He's not bullet proof."

Kate slowly lowered the gun, but didn't put it back in her holster. She stood awkwardly as if she wasn't sure if she should leap into action or be at ease. "So, it's a friend of yours. Are you gonna introduce it?" She asked, not looking like she actually wanted an introduction.

"You already know _him_." Angel explained cautiously.

"Doyle?" She asked, her eyes widening as she squinted at the spikey-looking shape in the shadows. It was probably the recognizable brown leather jacket that gave him away.

Doyle slowly stepped into the light, arms raised in surrender. Kate inhaled sharply as she took in the green skin and the dark-blue spikes. If Kate had been shocked by Angel's demon face, then Doyle's was a whole different level. She clutched the gun in her hand so tightly that her knuckles had whitened.

"I would ask what he is…" She began in a choked voice. "But, I don't wanna know. Do me a favor, Angel? Make that thing disappear." She pointed her gun at the dead demon's body and turned to go. She stopped short, seeing something else that caught her eye. "Daddy?"

Angel followed her gaze and saw that Trevor Lockley was indeed on the scene. "What's your father doing here?" He asked.

"Checking up on me, I guess." She answered distractedly, moving off in his direction.

Angel turned to find Doyle's eyes. He had morphed back into his human form the moment Kate's focus had left him and he now stood entirely outside the tunnel. "You okay?" Angel asked.

"Not particularly." Doyle retorted. "Wish ya hadn't outed me, man. She didn't need to know it was me."

"I'm sorry." Angel said, not bothering to point out that he'd done no such thing.

Doyle shrugged, stepping beside Angel and preparing to move the demon's body deeper inside the tunnel, where it would remain hidden until they could retrieve it after hours. "Guess it doesn't matter. She's your crush, not mine. If you could handle her seeing your face, I suppose her seeing mine is no big thing. Now if it was Cordy it'd be another story."

"I don't have a crush." Angel opposed, leaning down to grab the demon corpse's arms, while Doyle grabbed its legs.

"Right." Doyle said, not looking convinced. "She was the one with a crush."

They hoisted the demon and moved into the mouth of the tunnel. "I think she got over it." Angel commented dryly, dropping the corpse into a dark corner. He wiped his hands on his coat and then looked over at Doyle with curiosity. "Wait, are you saying Cordelia hasn't seen your demon face yet?"

Doyle followed Angel as they headed toward the entryway into the sewers; the only way Angel would be able to return to the office in the broad daylight.

"What? Ya think it's something I show her in between dinner courses? Appetizers, entrée, Doyle's spikey face and dessert. No way, man." Doyle replied defensively. "She knows about it. That's enough, yeah?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all." Angel admitted. "I mean, you guys have gotten… close."

"We haven't been dating that long, man. I'm not looking to give her a reason to change her mind."

Angel thought there was probably a lot more to it than Doyle was letting on. He knew that Doyle constantly struggled with the reality of what he was, and that sharing it with a woman he cared about, even one has accepting of the supernatural as Cordelia, had to be especially difficult.

"I think you might be underestimating her." Angel remarked. His words were said with an air of finality, and he had no intention of pushing the issue further.

Doyle's non-reply spoke volumes as they made their way through the tunnels and back to the office.

* * *

"Would that be the demon you and Angel encountered this morning?"

Wesley was holding out a book under Doyle's nose, as Doyle was pouring himself some coffee. He paused his pouring, looked at the sketch and then finished filling his mug. "Yeah, that's him."

"Her actually." Wesley corrected, pulling the book away and moving across the room toward Cordelia who was seated behind her desk, looking terminally bored. "It's a Kwaini. They're always female."

"All of them?!" Cordelia asked, from her seated position. "How do they… _you know_?"

"I assume you're inquiring about their mating habits." Wesley supposed, still with his nose in the book. "That's actually quite interesting, it seems they—"

"Disposal methods?" Angel interrupted. He'd been in his office, listening with his preternatural hearing, and had come to the threshold once he'd heard them identify the demon from the train incident.

"Yes, um… those should be relatively standard." Wesley explained. "Burial on virgin soil, simple Latinate incantation. However…"

"What?" Angel demanded. Caveats usually weren't good in their line of work.

"Well, it's curious. According to everything I could find a Kwaini is a peaceful, balancing demon. Non-violent." Wesley explained, directing a puzzled glance in Angel's direction.

"My almost-crushed-skull begs to differ on that point, bud." Doyle piped up, leaning against the counter as he took a sip from his mug. This morning's brew wasn't half bad; only mildly acidic with bonus coffee-flavoring. "It was definitely a big fan of violence."

"Not if it's a Kwaini it wasn't." Wesley argued. "They're incredibly articulate, gentle creatures not even capable of the kind of power and strength you both described."

Angel and Doyle exchanged a look that told Wesley otherwise.

"Something set it off. We need to find out what." Angel said simply, disappearing back into his office without further elaboration.

"Of all the demons I'd imagine terrorizing a train full of people, it most certainly wouldn't be this one." Wesley muttered, mostly to himself, as he flipped through several pages of his dense book.

"Imagined that a lot, have ya?" Doyle commented, still in his relaxed position. As soon as Doyle spoke, Wesley seemed to snap out of his haze and process what he'd just said, as well as how it could be interpreted by his half-demon co-worker.

Wesley stammered a bit, as if he was specifically looking for Doyle's approval. "Of course not. There are many other demon tribes equally as peaceful—your ex-wife, Harriet, has done some very enlightening work on the subject, as a matter-of-face. Brachens, like yourself, for example, very wonderful creatures, known for their close familial bonds and environmental activism—"

Doyle had flinched at the word "creatures" even as Wesley continued to pontificate on the virtues of Brachen demons. The grin that had appeared on his face, told Doyle he believed he was doing a good thing—reaching out that proverbial olive branch to show Doyle he was a friend of the demon clans. In actuality, his words only succeeded in agitating an already sore wound. Doyle bit back his knee jerk reaction to set Wesley straight. Instead, he simply held up a hand, halting him before he could add any further insult to injury.

"You can drop the demon cheerleader bit." Doyle interjected. "I get it. And if this is your way of apologizing for the whole demons-can't-perform-exorcisms thing…" Doyle snuck a glance at Cordelia, who was watching him intently from her place behind the desk. "I accept."

Wesley's jaw dropped in astonishment. "You do?"

"Let's skip the hug and make-up session and leave it at that, yeah?" Doyle requested, moving to take one of the seats in front of Cordelia's desk. She was smiling at him approvingly. Probably glad to see him making an effort to get along with Wesley.

"Yes, well… back to the matter at hand." Wesley said, wearing a pleased expression as he buried his face back in his book. "There must be something that triggered the violent episode in the Kwaini."

"I could give Harry a call. Pick her brain." Doyle offered. "She might know something about these Kwaini demons that isn't in that book of yours."

"That would be most helpful." Wesley agreed. "And in the meantime, I shall retrieve the body and perform an autopsy."

"Don't let anyone tell you, you don't know how to have a good time." Cordelia snarked, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Ugh… I hope you don't plan on doing that here in the office."

"No, definitely not." Wesley assured her. "I'd need access to a large flat surface and running water. Angel's kitchen should work nicely."

Cordelia's look of utter disgust didn't alter at that revelation. Doyle winked at her before getting up out of his seat and leaning into Angel's office. "Got all that, boss?"

Angel was seated behind his desk, in deep contemplation. He looked up at Doyle and gave a distracted nod.

"Something you wanna share with the rest of the class?" Doyle wondered, noting Angel's distraction. "Or are ya just excited by the idea of a dead Kwaini demon carcass laid out on your kitchen table?"

Angel had no visible reaction to Doyle's comment. "I'm wondering what a delivery guy was doing on a commuter train in the middle of his shift…"


	22. The Prodigal, Pt 2

**"The Prodigal," Part II**

"Ya saying the thing was on drugs?"

Doyle was talking into Cordelia's cell phone, and what he'd heard from Wesley on the other end had given him pause. Apparently, the usually docile Kwaini demon had good reason to be acting erratically.

Cordelia shifted in the passenger seat, crossing her legs and causing Doyle's eyes to fall on the lengthy span of skin she was showing. She had insisted on coming along on daytime surveillance duty, claiming she'd rather do just about anything aside from watch Wesley slice and dice an already fairly unattractive demon specimen. Or, worse, get relegated to the bore that was dusty-book duty. So, he'd let her come along and almost choked when she turned up in a skimpy little dress, stilettos, oversized sunglasses and a short blonde wig. She couldn't have stood out more if she'd tried. At least it wouldn't matter too much if she stayed in the car, but it wasn't exactly helping his concentration.

"Ah… yeah, I'm listening." He said distractedly into the phone, realizing Wesley was still chattering away, but admittedly he had no idea what the man had just said. He hoped it wasn't too important. "I'm thinking this delivery guy we're tailing is the demon-drug-dealer in question, yeah? And our girl was jonesin' for a fix."

He listened as Wesley seemed to agree. "Okay, be sure to tell Angel when he wakes up. Cordy and I will stay on him for now." He hung up without further word, handing the phone back to Cordelia without making the mistake of looking at her again. He needed to keep his eyes in the other direction if he was going to actually discover anything of use.

He started the car as he saw the guy head back to his truck and pull out of the parking lot they'd been staking out.

"So, that's it then? Our homicidal demon was a junkie?" Cordelia complained. "Doesn't sound like much of a case. We're not exactly the DEA."

Doyle kept his eyes on the road, careful to keep the truck in sight without getting close enough for the guy to notice them.

"Yeah, well, that demon Angel and I faced was supposed to be a gentle thing. Imagine what a drug like that could do to a demon who already fancies killing people."

"Oh." She replied, clearly realizing why it was so important that they stopped the drug supply at its source.

As he kept driving, he noticed they'd entered the warehouse district. That was promising. Warehouses were good places for shady folks to conduct their business. He should know having conducted some shady business of his own in the past. Not as shady as all this, of course.

"How's Harry?" Cordelia inquired, disrupting his concentration once again. Not to mention, setting his nerves a little on edge. It was never a good idea to talk about a past love with a current one, especially when the current one had a well-known jealous streak. But, she had been sitting right beside him when he'd made the call to his ex-wife to ask about the Kwaini, so in this case, Doyle hoped there was relatively little danger in answering her question.

"Ah… she seemed like she's doing okay. Still out there in the desert with Jhiera's women." Doyle answered, keeping his voice casual. "She was concerned about the Kwaini thing, o'course. Nothing Harry likes more than helping demon women in trouble."

"That's good." Cordelia responded, without giving him any indication that she felt otherwise. "What's bothering you, then?"

"Huh?" Doyle stopped the car short as her question took him by surprise. He saw the truck in front of them turn into a parking lot with a large sign reading _Kel's Exotic Auto_. He inched up slightly, stopping the car once again so they wouldn't be spotted. He could still keep an eye on the delivery guy from this vantage point. Doyle watched as the guy got out of his truck and disappeared inside, before shifting his eyes toward the concerned individual in his passenger seat.

"You didn't think I'd notice how terrible you've looked every morning this week?" Cordelia asked, clearly a little insulted that he'd think she hadn't noticed. "Way worse than normal."

"Gee, thanks, Cordelia." He said sarcastically, turning to stare out the window at the very uneventful scene before him.

"Don't make me feel bad for saying it." She argued. "As if the bloodshot eyes weren't bad enough, those bags have become a near-permanent fixture, buddy. And, as someone who cares about your appearance, as well as your general health and wellbeing, I've gotta say—there's a problem here."

He sighed heavily, wondering exactly when they'd turned the corner in their relationship to the point where she could start ragging on him about his personal habits. Next thing she'd be dumping his bottles of alcohol down the drain and tossing out his packs of cigarettes. Then again, this was Cordelia, she'd never really shied away from ragging on him even before they'd been dating. He had all but signed up for this.

"Maybe I've been having a bit o' trouble sleeping lately." He admitted, hoping she wouldn't press the issue further. It wouldn't lead anywhere good.

"File that one under 'duh.'" She muttered, but then he heard the compassionate shift in her voice, which told him she wasn't actually ragging. She was genuinely concerned. "Obviously there's something you need to get off your mind before you start giving the local zombie population a run for its money. So… out with it."

He brought his eyes back over to meet hers, and was rather touched by the earnestness he saw there. He felt that twinge deep down; the one that made him want to curl up in her lap and tell her his entire sad story. But, that wasn't an urge he'd ever actually give in to. "I'm fine, Princess. Promise there's nothin' on my mind that hasn't been there all along."

At least that much was true. It's not like he ever _didn't_ think about how much he hated what he was.

She eyed him skeptically, clearly not believing a word of it. Her mouth opened and he braced himself for another of her usual barbs, but instead she closed it again and said nothing else, quietly turning to gaze out the window at the empty lot beyond.

* * *

Cordelia stood by the closed door of the office, observing the small white rectangular box that was now mounted on the wall beside it. "We should use something easy to remember. Like my birthday." She announced to the other occupants of the room.

"I don't know your birthday." Wesley mumbled distractedly from where he sat behind her desk, tapping away on the computer keys. He was attempting to write up some kind of official demon autopsy report, because he was a major brownnoser. She hoped he knew that he wouldn't be getting any special bonus just because he insisted on doing more work than was strictly necessary. There was no bonus to be had.

"Exactly." Cordelia exclaimed. "Maybe if you all had to type it into the alarm panel every day, it wouldn't just be Doyle buying me a cupcake. Now would it? There could be multiple cupcakes. And possibly presents."

On the other end of the work-ethic spectrum was Doyle, who was half-dozing on the small green couch, probably trying to catch up on his lack of sleep. He made no comment about the alarm or her birthday or anything at all, but she did detect a light snore from his corner of the room. So, full-dozing then.

Cordelia pushed a few buttons and then smiled to herself in satisfaction. "There. All set."

At that moment, the front door opened allowing in a petite, but fierce, blonde. The alarm emitted only silence.

"Hi Kate." She said politely, even as she huffed at the alarm panel with frustration.

"Cordelia." Kate replied with reservation, her eyes darting around the place in something akin to apprehension. Odd, considering she faced dangerous situations every day of her life and Angel Investigations… not so dangerous.

Cordelia knew that Angel would probably come to the door at any moment, sensing Kate's presence, so she didn't feel like formalities were all that necessary at this point. Then again, if she didn't stick to formalities it would be kind of awkward to have Kate standing there sizing up the place. "Can we help you?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Cordelia saw that Doyle had sat up very quickly upon Kate's entrance, either trying to look exceptionally professional, or concerned she was there to arrest him. Either way, he looked less than pleased to see her.

Kate's eyes fell on Doyle specifically and something unspoken passed between them. Cordelia's brow arched involuntarily as Kate's eyes turned back in Cordelia's direction. "So… are you a demon, too?" She was directing her question to Cordelia, but then Kate shifted her attention to the Englishman tapping furiously on the keyboard behind the desk. "And him? Are you _all_ demons here?"

Cordelia knew her face wasn't hiding her shock at the absurdity of that question. She had a lot of replies waiting on the tip of her tongue, but none of them could leave her lips before Angel's voice spoke up from his office doorway.

"No, Kate." He said calmly. "Cordelia and Wesley are human. Just like you." He gestured for Kate to enter his office, turning to do the same himself.

"Oh." Kate said, moving to take Angel up on his invitation. "Okay."

As soon as Angel's door had been closed behind her, Cordelia whirled around to face the half-demon behind her, who was slowly rising from his seat and at least had the decency to look ashamed. "You told Kate that you're a demon?!" She demanded, a little annoyed that it took him months to tell her the truth and now he was freely telling someone like Kate who was little more than an acquaintance.

"I did nothin' of the sort." He retorted, folding his arms over his chest defensively. "She saw."

Cordelia nodded in understanding, not having to ask what it was that Kate saw. Obviously it was Doyle's other face. The one Cordelia had yet to see for herself. The one he didn't seem to want to show her. Not that she'd ever asked.

An unsettling feeling formed in the pit of Cordelia's stomach. Maybe that's what's been bothering him. Maybe she'd offended him by acting like the other face didn't exist. She was his girlfriend now—or, was she? Could she call herself his girlfriend or was it too soon for that label?

Ugh, relationships were hard. Especially when you were dating a half-demon, who would surprise you by sharing his love of the night sky one night, only to then completely shut you out when it came to simple things, like his DNA.

She wanted to know all about him. She wanted to know _all of him_. And it was totally his fault that she did! He was the one who'd gone on and on about getting to know each other better. Yes, she knew she hadn't exactly gone into great detail about her history, but hers was just high school stuff. His had to be a lot more interesting; there was more of it anyway. More than just the cliff's notes version he'd given her before they'd started dating.

Cordelia pulled herself back into the present, realizing she'd been staring quietly at Doyle and he now looked very unsettled as a result.

She let him off the hook. For now. But only because she _really_ wanted to figure out how to make the alarm work. She lifted the manual off the counter and turned back to the page that dealt with set up. "Let's try this again…"

* * *

Doyle leaned in the doorframe of Angel's office watching the vampire ransack the place for some unknown item.

"I think ya need to tell her, man." He advised, watching as Angel's irritation level rose at the sound of Doyle's voice. "Ya already warned the guy, which was more than you shoulda done, if you ask me."

"I _didn't_ ask you." Angel grunted from where he was crouched, searching underneath his desk.

"And that's the beauty of having a friend like yours truly. I'll give ya advice, even when ya don't ask for it." Doyle rebutted, eliciting no further reply from Angel.

Angel had gone above and beyond the call of duty to cover for Trevor Lockley, who they now knew in no uncertain terms, was involved in the demon drug-smuggling ordeal. At this point, it seemed the only one who didn't know, was Kate.

"I get that you're trying to be a good friend, trying to protect her, but maybe this isn't the sorta thing she needs protection from." Doyle continued, making no move to help Angel with his search, or even ask what it was he was actually searching for. "Hiding the truth about her dad's illicit activities won't make 'em less true."

Angel popped his head back over the edge of the desk, leveling Doyle with a desperate look. "Have you seen my car keys?" He finally asked.

Doyle gave Angel a sideways grin as he pulled the set of keys from his pocket and tossed them across the room. Angel moved to catch them easily, giving a little growl of disapproval before heading toward the exit.

Bringing a hand up to his tired eyes, Doyle rubbed them absently. He turned to move back into the front office. Moments earlier Cordelia had been cleaning the coffee maker, something she rarely did—it actually gave Doyle hope that tomorrow's brew would be almost-drinkable again. She'd apparently set that task aside and now stood in the center of the room, arms folded and eyes filled with purpose.

Doyle knew this look, and he didn't particularly like it. This was her confrontation look.

"Ya disagree with what I was telling Angel?" He asked guardedly.

"I completely agree." She enthused. Somehow, her positive response did little to alleviate his fear about the intensity of her gaze. "I've been thinking… Considering that Kate got to see your other face, don't you think it's time you showed it to me?"

Doyle felt the bile push its way up his esophagus. She had finally uttered the words he'd been dreading since the day she found out he had another face.

"No, I don't." He answered roughly, trying not to make his response sound as hostile as he knew it would to her ears. "Knowing what I am is one thing, but seein' it…"

"Didn't you just finish telling Angel that hiding the truth doesn't make it any less true?" She pointed out sensibly. "Well, hiding your demon face from me, doesn't mean it's not there."

"Ya don't think I know that?!" He snapped back at her, now freely allowing the bitterness to creep in. "I'm well aware of the fact that it's there, and it's never going away."

His tone had taken her aback. He watched some of the confidence drain out of her, and her next words were considerably more hesitant in nature. "You told me that dating was about getting to know each other. Sharing things with each other. All that stuff you told me the other night, about your students and how much you enjoyed teaching them about the stars… that was good stuff, Doyle. I liked hearing that. I want more." She pleaded.

"What you're askin' for is different, Princess." He responded, trying to wrangle in his anger, and return his voice to its more normal quality. Even though her request had cut him open, it had come from a place of good intentions. He realized that, and he didn't want to punish her for it. She wanted to know more about him. He certainly couldn't fault her for that, since he felt very much the same way about her. It was just unfortunate that the one thing she wanted to know, was the one thing he didn't wish to share.

He wasn't entirely sure what he planned on saying next, but as it turned out, it didn't matter. A Kwaini demon crashed through the front door and made a beeline for Cordelia. Doyle wasn't even consciously aware of stepping in front of it, but that's exactly what he did. Allowing it to tackle him to the ground. He heard Cordelia shriek in the background as he was pinned under the creature.

He heard something else. Some electronic voice in the background. " _Door open. Door open_."

Christ, it was that stupid alarm. Apparently, Cordelia had gotten it to work after all. For all the good it was doing them.

The Kwaini was strong. Maybe not quite as strong as the one he and Angel had faced in the subway, but still a force to be reckoned with. He elbowed it in the face and used every ounce of human strength he had to roll it across the floor, further from the corner Cordelia had backed into.

"Get outta here, Cordy!" He shouted, even as the demon once again gained the upper hand and wrapped its hands around Doyle's throat.

Whether she would've obeyed or not, he would never know. She never had a chance to run before the sound of breaking glass gave way to a second Kwaini—this one had crashed through the bathroom window and rolled into the office. The ever-helpful alarm once again stated the obvious. _"Bathroom window is open_."

Cordelia picked up a large book from the edge of her desk, tossing it at the rapidly approaching demon's head. When that did nothing, she pushed over a filing cabinet, backing herself further and further away from the beast.

Doyle still struggled with the first Kwaini, but he could see that the other was closing the gap between itself and Cordelia. Doyle hated to think what it'd do once it had its hands on her.

There was only one choice here, and even then, Doyle would still be outmatched. As a human, he had absolutely no chance whatsoever of saving himself, much less her. So, he morphed into his demon form, using the element of surprise to throw the Kwaini he had been wrestling with away from him. It landed headfirst in a potted plant, and Doyle didn't hesitate to lunge for the second one, which had by now grabbed Cordelia by the hair and was dragging her roughly along the floor.

Doyle wrapped his arms around the demon, and twisted, lacking the strength to break its neck, but still managing to wrench it away from Cordelia. It let go of her, stumbling back with Doyle wrapped around its back like a deranged monkey. Doyle could see Cordelia on the floor, holding her sore scalp. She'd be fine, as long as he could keep the drug-fueled demons away from her.

The second one had righted itself, and out of Doyle's peripheral vision, he saw that it was getting ready to attack again. Using all the demon strength he possessed, he positioned the Kwaini in his arms in just the right place, so that when the other Kwaini finally came charging… he let go and stepped back rapidly, moving swiftly out of the way. The two demons crashed through the window together, landing in a heap on the sidewalk below.

 _"_ _Office window is open."_

Doyle rushed forward and stuck his head out the window; he saw that one of the demons had died on impact, and the other was struggling to get to its feet. If he hurried, he might still be able to question it before finishing it off.

Someone was breathing heavily and it wasn't Doyle. A perk of being a demon—enhanced stamina. It was Cordelia, who had pulled herself off the floor and was standing wide-eyed and slack-jawed beside him. He couldn't bring himself to look directly at her, but he could see her expression out of the corner of his eye. He had heard the nearly imperceptible gasp when she had recovered and was able to focus on Doyle's changed features. Another perk of being a demon—enhanced senses.

He could hear her pulse racing and her labored breathing. He could smell the sweat on her skin. The whole room was full of her. But, he couldn't waste any more time standing there, nor did he want to. He needed to be as far away from her as possible. And anyway, Doyle had a demon to catch; he was the only one who could. "Looks like ya got what ya wanted, darlin'." He said in a low growl. "Hope you're feeling closer to me now."

He didn't wait to gauge her reaction. He sprinted for the door, intent on catching up with the injured Kwaini and beating a few answers out of it. Or, just beating it, for the sake of beating it. Yes, more perks of being a demon—enhanced speed, enhanced strength, enhanced aggression.

 _"_ _Door is open. Windows are open."_

"Call Angel. Warn him." He gritted out those final words from the doorway, and then punched the rectangular box on the wall, finally silencing the inane sound of the useless alarm.

With that, he disappeared into the darkness. The place best suited for a demon like him.


	23. The Prodigal, Pt 3

**"The Prodigal," Part III**

Doyle had gotten answers alright. Unfortunately, they came too little, too late. By the time he was able to catch up with Angel at Trevor Lockley's apartment, the damage had been done. Kate's father was dead. Angel had been forced to watch him die, unable to enter without an invitation. It didn't get much worse than that.

Afterwards, Angel had gone on the warpath, spurred on by Kate's pain. Armed to the teeth—armed _with_ his teeth. He was looking to put the demon drug ring out of business once and for all. He was looking for a demon massacre.

What's worse, Kate was with him. Actually, she'd gotten there first, which was why it was a damn good thing Angel and Doyle were right behind her or there'd be two less Lockleys in the world tonight.

As it was, there was one Lockley still standing—kneeling, actually. And an Angel. And a Doyle. All still intact physically. All ripped apart on the inside.

The drug-smuggling demons, however, were all dead. Chalk one up for the good guys.

There were no victory dances. The fighting had ceased and on the floor of a dirty, old warehouse sat a broken, grieving daughter, sitting in a pile of ashes belonging to the vampire she had just dusted.

Angel moved toward her slowly, reaching out a hand to comfort her. Doyle could see that she was struggling not to cry. "You okay? These demons were evil, Kate. You can never trust evil things." Angel paused, trying to figure out how best to connect with her. He really did want to. He really did care. Doyle had told him to connect to the human world, and by all accounts, he'd tried where Kate was concerned. The problem was that Kate's human world was now tainted by the knowledge of the supernatural. "Kate, I know that what happened with your father—"

Kate recoiled away from him without warning, spinning to face him, with eyes blazing. "My father was human!" She flicked her eyes briefly to Doyle who stood several feet away, but her eyes returned to Angel as she spat her final words. "And you don't know anything about that!"

She got up and stalked off, leaving the two non-human beings in her wake. Angel and Doyle could barely look at each other, each wounded by her words for entirely different reasons. Each wishing this night had gone differently.

Sometimes even when the good guys win, they still lose.

* * *

 _"_ _Allen Francis Doyle. I'm counting to five. Do you hear me? If you don't open up by then, I'm calling 911!"_

 _"_ _NO! Please don't?"_

 _"_ _One!... Two!... Three! Francis, please!"_

 _She was crying. God, he hated it when she cried. He hated it when he was the cause._

 _"_ _Four!"_

 _He flicked the lock open and stepped away from the door. Keeping his back turned and moving as far away from it as possible. Her counting had stopped the moment she heard the telltale click of the lock._

 _He listened as the door slowly creaked open behind him._

 _"_ _Francis…?"_

 _He didn't turn to face her, but he could sense her coming closer. He could smell her—the perfumed scent of her lotion, the salty smell of her tears… he could hear her heart thumping in her chest. He was aware of every single step she took in his direction._

 _Then he felt her hand on his arm, urging him to turn around. He resisted at first, his final line of defense, as weak as it was._

 _"_ _Francis. What is it?" She rasped, voice laced with fear._

 _He turned partway toward her, revealing his face. The greyish-green skin, the midnight blue spikes, the fiery red eyes. The face of a demon._

 _And that's when Harriet screamed…_

* * *

Doyle hadn't been sleeping. He'd been staring. Laying on his couch, where he knew he'd eventually fall asleep, once he cracked open that new bottle of Scotch he'd bought on the way home from the battle.

Kate's words played on repeat in his mind. _My father was human and you know nothing about that!_ Doyle did, actually, know a thing or two about being human. It was, after all, the human in him that had let the existence of the demon ruin everything. And it was the human in him now that was going to do it all over again. He'd gotten considerably better at hiding and ignoring the demon; at letting others look past it—others, being Cordelia mostly. He should've known that wouldn't last. It was an illusion—one that had been irrevocably shattered.

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

He didn't move from his place on the couch, wondering if perhaps, he had fallen asleep already. This wasn't an hour that would bring visitors to his door. Actually, there was no hour that would bring visitors to his door—he never got visitors, aside from that one time Cordelia had unknowingly given his address to a loan shark. He didn't think loan sharks were in the habit of knocking, though.

 _Knock! Knock! Knock!_

Louder this time. More persistent. He was definitely awake and there was definitely someone knocking at his front door.

Pulling himself off the couch, he stumbled through the clutter of his apartment to approach the front door. He snuck a peek through the peephole and was not prepared for what he saw on the other side.

He immediately unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door open. "Cordelia?! What the hell ya doing here?"

"I was just _nowhere_ near your neighborhood." She said with a mini-eye roll. She brushed past him, entering the apartment without a real invitation and he watched in surreal detachment as her eyes took in the messy surroundings.

He shut and locked the door behind her, way more concerned with her physical wellbeing than her opinion of his bad housekeeping. "Someone who looks like you shouldn't be walking 'round this neighborhood at this hour... or any other for that matter. Ya shoulda just called."

She turned a pair of frustrated eyes in his direction. "I tried calling you, Doyle. More than once. Your phone must be off the hook or something."

It was. He forgot that he'd done that. He'd wanted to wallow in self-pity without interruption, never imagining that the interruption would be driven to his front door.

"I should probably get you a cell phone, like I did for Angel." She said offhandedly. "Assuming you wouldn't turn it off or ignore it the way he does."

He watched tensely as she walked deeper into the one-room apartment, continuing her silent assessment of his pigsty. He didn't move, didn't apologize for the mess. There was nothing he could do at this point that would make it any less mortifying. But, then, he saw her eyes fall on the open notebook on his coffee table and his stomach lurched, moving him into action. He propelled himself forward, removing a few items from a nearby chair and throwing them on top of the book she'd been eyeing. He hoped it didn't seem too obvious that he was trying to hide something. "Wanna sit?" He asked, pretending as if that had been the sole reason he cleared the chair.

"Gun is spelled with one N." She remarked with a barely interested eyebrow raise, clearly having seen some of his nearly-incoherent notes about the future. "Guess that wasn't a popular spelling word when you were a teacher, huh?"

She said nothing else about the notebook as she turned away from him, moving toward the chair he'd cleared for her. She made no motion to actually sit in it, tossing her purse there instead. She stood beside it, folding her arms around her body to support herself. He found himself slowly sitting down in the middle of the couch, as if waiting to be scolded, which he suspected was likely to happen.

"I take it you're here 'cause of what happened earlier, yeah?" He finally ventured an obvious guess, not being able to stand the deafening silence she'd carried in with her. He could see she was upset, and the fact that she said nothing, made him extremely tense. She was a ticking time bomb, and he was waiting for her to explode. Better to set her off—get it over with. The bottle would be there to comfort him after she stormed out—not that he could, in good conscience, let her storm out into this neighborhood all alone. He'd have to, in the very least, follow her to her car.

"All this time working at a detective agency's really paid off." She snipped back, but her comment held only mild annoyance rather than any real bite.

"Listen, Cordy. I'm real sorry I snapped at ya. I just need some time alone—"

"Too bad." She replied briskly, leveling him with a defiant stare. "You're not alone anymore. You have a girlfriend now, who cares about you. And when I see that you're upset, I'm not going to let you storm off by yourself to drink the night away. I'm going to call both you and Angel repeatedly until I know you're at home and then risk life and limb in this terrible neighborhood to come over and make sure you're okay!"

Something about her mixture of sincerity and irritation struck his funny bone and he found himself smiling, albeit weakly, despite the circumstances. She did have a way of cutting to the heart of the matter, even if she didn't necessarily understand what was, in fact, the matter. Even though, she couldn't fix what was wrong—no one could—Doyle had to admit, just having her show up and express concern for him, did make it easier to bear.

Cordelia moved toward the open space beside him on the couch, and took a seat. He could feel the warmth of her thigh against his, and the comforting touch of her hand as it found its way to his shoulder. He dropped his head into his hands, more out of exhaustion than depression, but she clearly thought otherwise.

"Talk to me." She urged softly, using a tone he wasn't all that familiar with coming from her. "Tell me why it bothered you that I saw…" She cut herself off from directly saying the words she thought might cut him deeper. "…what I saw."

"Didn't it bother _you_?" He asked in a choked whisper, still keeping his hands over his face. There it was—the real question. He was convinced that if being a demon tormented him as much as it did, there was no way it couldn't bother her to be intimate with one. There was no way she could see that other face and not have it change her already patchy perception of him.

"No." She said simply. She didn't elaborate which caused him to drop his hands and look up at her in disbelief. He had no doubt that she could see the pain that had gathered in his eyes—the devastation that hovered just on the edge of his pale-green orbs.

"Well, now… that's a lie, Princess." His strangled voice replied. "I know I'm not much to look at, even without the spikes, but there's no way ya could see that other face and not feel a bit differently about dating a demon."

She was looking at him like he was a wounded animal, which he had to admit, might be exactly what he was. "You want me to be honest, right? Brutally honest, the way I always am?"

"Yeah." He urged her, swallowing heavily. "I do."

"Okay, then here goes." She said, keeping her dark hazel eyes firmly focused on his. "I like this face better. I like these eyes better, and these lips better, and this complexion _way_ better. Particularly, the lack of spikes." He held his breath as he listened to her words, but didn't turn away. She still had her hand on his shoulder and he felt her squeeze it encouragingly as she spoke. "But, I didn't fall for you because of this face, and I'm not going to un-fall for you because of the other one." She moved her other hand across his lap to capture one of his hands, lightly stroking it with her thumb. "You're a good person, Doyle, no matter what face you wear. That's what matters. And although I didn't get to see your other face for very long… it didn't look so bad to me. I mean, as demon faces go. I could still see all your best features."

As she concluded, he felt his brows knit together in puzzled curiosity, wondering what features she could possibly recognize other than his hair, which seemed unexceptional at best. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She assured him, moving her hand from his shoulder to the back of his head, toying with the soft, dark hair that grew there. "I could see your loyalty and bravery and _kindness_. None of those things went away when your face changed."

He choked out something that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. How was it possible this girl, younger than he was when he'd first had to face that demons existed, could be saying all the right things? How was it that she could say them, and he could believe them? She wasn't the first woman who'd tried to convince him of such things. Harry had tried. Once she'd gotten over the initial shock and horror, she'd tried. Over and over. But, the damage had been done, and Doyle couldn't hear it. Could never come close to believing it.

They were, of course, both right that the face meant very little in and of itself. What that face represented was the key. His deep-seeded belief that the face changed who he was inside—made him something other than the man he wanted to be. That was the part he could never let go of. He probably would never let go of it entirely. Perhaps it was a sign that he had healed more than he'd realized. If he could hear those words coming out of Cordelia's mouth, and instead of lashing out at her, instead of pushing her away and telling her how wrong she was…instead, he could let her wrap her arms around him and hold him close. He could let her kiss his cheek and stroke his hair and whisper that she wasn't going anywhere—she still wanted to be with him.

Those were all things he'd wanted to let Harry do, back in the day. And it seemed likely that she had wanted to do them. But, Doyle had never, ever let her. He'd always fought her. Rejected her. Always pushed her away. Until one day she didn't bother coming back.

He had imagined himself doing the same with Cordelia, that the cycle of self-sabotage and destruction would continue… but he found himself kissing her instead.

Her kiss was soft, slow and sweet. He could taste the comfort it provided. As much as he hated himself for needing it, he did. He _needed_ it. He wasn't deluding himself into thinking Cordelia could save his soul, but she could soothe it. And, as much as it surprised him, he was willing to let her.

He took what she was giving him, like a starving man. That was, until he felt her tongue push its way into his mouth and her hands travel to the buttons on his shirt. Suddenly her idea of comfort became a little more than he was willing to take from her. He gently caught her by the forearms and held her back, removing her lips from his own. "Thank you. " He whispered, trying to ignore the cloud of desire that lingered in her eyes. "Ya did good, darlin'. I'm feeling a lot better. So, I think it's time we get ya back to your car all safe-like."

She moved closer to him in objection. "I don't want to leave." She looked almost shy as she tilted her head, batting her eyelashes up at him. "I want to stay."

The look on her face left no mystery about what she expected to happen if she stayed.

Doyle closed his eyes for a moment, clearing his head. It was hard to keep control of his rational brain function if he looked at her, but he wasn't planning on taking advantage of her good intentions. "Not that I don't appreciate the comfort you're offering, love. But, that's not how I wanna get ya into my bed or any other bed for that matter."

"Good, because I'm done comforting you." She argued gently. "This is something else."

He opened his eyes along with his mouth to object, but she placed a finger over his lips. "You said you feel better, so if that's true, then...let me stay. Even if it's not true. _Let me stay_."

She removed her finger, and looked at him heatedly, biting her lower lip. She was making it exceptionally hard for him to say no. He was starting to wonder if he wasn't just sabotaging himself after all, but then his gaze shifted to the pile of junk sitting on his coffee table… and he inhaled deeply, smelling the stale cigarette odor that hovered in the air. "Not for anything, Princess, but my place is far from a palace. I want ya more than you can possibly imagine, so don't be thinking otherwise. But, here…." He extended an arm to the clutter around them. "Last I checked, the walls weren't lined with mink."

"Your place is pretty gross. Still smells like bong-water. And, if you'll remember, what I said was that I couldn't get comfortable here even if it _was_ lined with mink." She reminded him teasingly.

"Exactly." He pointed out, thinking he'd just won the argument. "Ya don't want to spend more time here than ya have to, yeah?"

Apparently he hadn't won anything, which became obvious when she pushed him against the back of the couch cushions and climbed onto his lap. "I just want _you_ , wherever you are." She insisted, lifting her hands to cup his face, forcing him to look directly at her and really hear what she was saying. "Right now, you happen to be here."

He had lost. He had definitely lost. Although, losing might actually be winning in this case.

As she pushed her chest against him and claimed his mouth for her own, all other arguments left his brain. There was nothing comforting about her kiss now. Nothing even close to comforting about her hips softly grinding against him, encouraging him to give up any lingering objections. She made a very convincing argument that she actually did want _him_ and nothing else. There was really no question that he wanted her just as bad—more, in fact. Had to be more.

So, he let himself forget why she'd come. And focused on making sure she'd come again.


	24. Interlude

**"Interlude"**

Cordelia's eyelids fluttered open slowly and she saw that the room was dimly lit by sunlight peeking haphazardly through the blinds, which had never been closed properly. It wasn't hard for her to remember that she wasn't waking up in her own bed; for one thing, her bed wasn't nearly this small or lumpy. For another, she'd never woken up with a second occupant in her bed. This morning there was the distinct feeling of featherlight breath steadily hitting the back of her neck and shoulder, along with the warmth of another body pressed up against her back and an arm wrapped snuggly around her waist. She closed her eyes once again, relishing this brand new feeling of waking up in the arms of a man who adored her. It wasn't something she'd ever experienced before, and she had to say, as mornings went, this was a pretty good one already.

The night before, well, that had been something else she'd never experienced before.

Sure, she'd had sex before. That was nothing new. Most recently she'd slept with that uber-jerk Wilson, which she really would prefer to forget about. Any sliver of gratification she'd gotten from that night had been tainted in the aftermath; and really, it hadn't been that gratifying to begin with, considering she'd merely been using him to forget about her feelings for another man.

Before that was high school stuff, which could hardly be considered all that memorable. Devon seemed to know what he was doing, at least, but Cordelia hadn't exactly cared about him. If he hadn't been the lead singer in a band, and she hadn't been reeling from nearly being sacrificed to a giant reptile at the hands of a bunch of frat boys, and his father wasn't filthy rich, she wouldn't have slept with Devon at all. He was kind of a flake. A trait, which was fully demonstrated when he stopped returning her calls or showing up for dates.

Prior to Devon, there was Kevin, dearly departed Kevin—she had really liked Kevin, but she'd never had a chance to go all the way with him, before he was eaten by vampires. He was a nice guy, though, unlike so many of the other cretins she dated. Speaking of cretins, there was Mitch, the cretin who she had unfortunately allowed to be her first. Casanova, he was not, although she was pretty sure the boys in the locker room heard otherwise. She'd never lived down the reputation Mitch's big mouth had caused—pretty much every guy she'd dated after him had expected to get in her pants and been disappointed when they didn't. She broke up with Mitch not long after Marcie Ross, the invisible girl, beat him with a baseball bat—she really didn't like him enough to wait for the bruises to heal.

Xander Harris came after all those guys. He was her last real boyfriend, prior to Doyle. And there were genuine feelings there, despite her wish to retcon them all away. But, despite dating Xander for a considerable length of time, he'd never actually made it around all the bases—a decision that turned out to be rather fortuitous, considering how badly things ended between them.

Cordelia supposed the bar was set pretty low in terms of sexual partners, never having had one she actually had any real feelings for. She knew it was bound to be different with Doyle, simply because she did have feelings. There was that, and she just assumed, as an older man who was formerly married, he'd probably know how to satisfy a relatively inexperienced girl such as herself.

As it turned out, he did far better than 'satisfy,' but that wasn't really the part that blew her mind. It was all the rest of it. All the feelings she had for Doyle, all the feelings she knew he had for her—all those emotions were mixed in with the physical experience and had turned it into something far better than she knew it could be. Doyle hadn't just given her physical pleasure, he'd given her… _everything_. Everything he had to give. He hadn't told her how he felt out loud, but she was pretty certain he'd been telling her over and over with his actions. She'd seen it in those beautiful green eyes of his, and tasted it in each one of his searing kisses and felt it through his gentle touches.

Had he made love to her? Is that what had just happened?

It wasn't just sex, and now she knew with Doyle it would never be just sex. There was far too much emotion between them for it to be just sex. And to think, she'd always assumed "making love" was a cliché created to sell sappy romance novels and movies. Now she finally knew what all the fuss was about.

It hadn't even mattered that his apartment left a little something—okay, _a lot_ —to be desired. His studio apartment was cramped, cluttered and stuffy. And his bed, which sat roughly twenty feet from his couch, was far too small to fit two people comfortably, not unless those two people were wrapped around each other. Good thing they enjoyed being wrapped around each other. Even so, she'd been so consumed by _him_ , that the rest of it didn't matter. Plus, there was something oddly sensual about being in a room that seemed to envelop her in his scent. That smoky smell with a touch of his cologne or aftershave underneath—it was very much him. And now it was all over her. And, God help her, she was pretty sure she _liked_ it.

She still planned on buying him some air freshener, though.

Cordelia wondered if he felt the same things she had; if she'd been able to give him even half of what he'd given her.

He stirred against her, and she inhaled sharply at the sudden friction of his bare skin moving against hers. The arm that was wrapped around her tightened, and she felt a warm sensation against her shoulder as he began placing hot, wet kisses there.

She wasn't surprised to find her body reacting to him instantly. He'd always had an effect on her, even before they'd spent the night in each other's arms. But now, the floodgates had been opened…

She boldly searched for his hand beneath the covers so she could guide it further south, letting him know just how ready she was for him once again.

* * *

"'Mornin' Princess." Doyle murmured to the woman who'd just nestled herself against him and was now lightly running her fingers through his chest hair. "You have a helluva way of getting a fella's pulse racing first thing in the morning. I'm thinking I should ditch the coffee and keep you around instead."

"Not a bad idea." She replied with a throaty laugh. "I come without filters."

As he looked down at the luscious brown hair sprawled across his upper arm and the perfectly manicured nails trailing across his flesh, he couldn't imagine ever wiping the smile from his face. He was actually tempted to pinch himself, because the entire night had felt like a dream. An actual dream rather than the nightmarish memories he'd been plagued with all the nights prior to the last one.

She had come to him willingly the previous evening and it had meant more to him than she could ever understand; it had saved him from his own worst enemy— _himself_. He hadn't even been consciously aware of how much he needed it. Needed _her_. She had made him feel human again, just when he needed to be reminded what it felt like.

He'd thought the fact that he'd gotten Cordelia to date him was the big accomplishment—and considering how hard she fought against dating him, it most certainly was. What he'd failed to realize was that conquering his own fear was the bigger accomplishment. He'd been holding back as much as she had. Maybe more so. All that time he'd thought he was chasing and she was running, when in fact, they'd been playing tug-of-war. He had been so convinced he'd play things out with Cordelia the way he'd once played them with Harry. He shared only the things he wanted to share, and hid that which he actually needed to share. And if Cordelia had been anyone else—if she had reacted the way 99% of the human population would—he'd be alone right now. He'd have broken completely.

Instead, Cordelia had reacted as only Cordelia _would_ react. Stubbornly, to say the least. She gave him a dose of her trademark brutal honesty, and used it to actually get through his thick skull—because the thing about brutal honesty was, you could always trust it. She had no hang-ups about his being a demon, which was actually miraculous considering she'd all too recently been victimized by one. The issues were Doyle's and Doyle's alone, and she didn't let them stop her. What Cordelia Chase wanted, Cordelia Chase got. And she'd made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that she wanted Doyle.

And had him, she did.

He would've liked to make the surroundings better for her, but there was nothing he could do to change his less-than-ideal living conditions. Thankfully, she'd slipped into the bathroom long enough to allow him a chance to tear the stale sheets off the bed, replacing them with a fresher set he had on hand. And then, he'd focused on making sure the experience of being together overshadowed the shabby decor around them. Judging by the noises she'd made and the look he'd seen on her face most of the night, he had good reason to believe he'd been successful. Even now, in the pale light of morning, she wasn't running for the hills. Rather, she was quite comfortably lounging in his arms, body pressed against his, tracing small circles in the curly hairs that adorned his chest. It certainly appeared like there was no other place she'd rather be.

"We're gonna be late for work." Doyle said with a lazy smirk. "And that's all your fault. Not that I'm complaining 'bout how ya say good mornin'."

"Since when do you worry about getting to work on time?" She chided lightly, tapping her finger against his chest to emphasize her point.

"I'll have y'know, I worry very much about getting to work on time... when you're there waiting." Doyle winked down at her. "Now that you're here with me, can't say I'm in nearly as much of a rush."

"So, let's not rush, then." She said flirtatiously, sliding upwards so that she could kiss his collarbone and follow it toward his neck.

"I'm beginning to think I'm not the only demon in this relationship." He joked.

She paused her kisses at his words, and placed both hands on his upper chest, propping herself up to look him in the eye. He could see a wave of concern pass over her. "Are you... y'know... feeling better about that now? For real?" She asked hesitantly, clearly not wanting to bring a dark cloud over their happy place.

"As much as I can, darlin'." He replied honestly, giving her the type of smile that showed it'd never be easy for him.

She gazed up at him with those warm, earth-toned eyes, looking very much like she was considering something. Then she shifted so she was on her back, with her head still resting in the crook of his shoulder. "Give me your hand."

"Again?" He asked raising his brows at her. "You're insatiable, woman."

She shook her head, laughing at what he assumed she was planning. She grabbed his hand for herself and guided it across her abdomen, placing his fingertips on the raised flesh of her scar. "Feel that?" She asked, letting go of the laughter but keeping her eyes soft.

Doyle nodded sympathetically, "It's a beauty all right." He kept rubbing his fingers over the spot, waiting for her to explain. He had already seen the scar in question over the course of the night, and imagined that it'd been a serious wound at one time in her life.

"It's not quite the same thing as your other face, but it's something I've never talked about with anyone." She said, sadness permeating her otherwise steady voice. He could see what she was trying to do. She was showing him her scar, because she'd already seen his. And to say he was touched by her efforts was a gross understatement.

"Tell me." Doyle urged gently, continuously brushing his fingertips over her scarred flesh.

Keeping her hand over his as it grazed over her belly, she began to speak. "I was dating this guy who I'd known—and looked down on—pretty much my entire life. There were no less than a hundred reasons why I shouldn't have even given him the time of day, much less had romantic feelings for him. He was annoying, for one. He wasn't rich or popular or all that great looking. Not athletic aside from this one time he made the Sunnydale swim team after several of them turned into fish. Basically, he was the opposite of all the other guys I dated."

Doyle nodded along, starting to understand at least part of her initial reluctance to date him. A guy unlike the ones she usually dated—once bitten, twice shy.

"We were together for a while, and I thought we'd probably make it until graduation, at least. That was, until I walked in on him making out with someone who was _not_ me. Worse than that, she wasn't pretty or popular or rich either. Me, Queen of Sunnydale High, got cheated on by the King of the dorks with a fellow dork! It was beyond mortifying."

"And then he stabbed ya?" Doyle asked in confusion, not meaning to be insensitive, but wondering what the scar on her abdomen had to do with any of this.

"Then I fell through the floor and was impaled by rebar." She explained matter-of-factly. "He was being held hostage by Spike in this old burnt out factory, and I was trying to rescue him. Turns out, he didn't need the rescuing, so I really shouldn't have bothered."

Doyle's jaw unlatched as he followed her story, imagining his Cordelia valiantly coming to the rescue of her boyfriend, to first find him in the arms of another woman and then sustain a serious physical injury. He involuntarily hugged her closer to him, wishing he could find that guy and hurt him for having broken her heart. After that, he supposed he'd have to thank the guy for screwing things up so she'd be back on the market. "I'm sorry ya went through all that, Princess." Doyle replied softly.

"I used to be." She said evenly. "Sorry, that is. Really sorry for myself. Really bitter at Xander—that was the cheater—and Buffy, because he was her friend and my life had been practically perfect before she showed up in Sunnydale. Because on top of being betrayed by someone I cared about and the lengthy hospital stay I had to endure, I became a laughing stock. The sheep who used to follow me, turned into wolves." She paused for a moment, pursing her lips together tightly before finally continuing. "It really hurt—and I popped my stiches, like, twice, at least. For a while, I didn't think I'd ever be able to recover."

"And now?" He asked, already pretty certain he knew the answer.

She looked up at him, suddenly seeming much wiser than her nineteen years, and yet much younger at the same time. "Now it's just a scar. I'll always have to wear it, but it doesn't define me."

He inhaled sharply as he registered the double-meaning of her words—how much they also applied to him. No, it wasn't the same, but it felt the same to her. And she'd chosen to share it with him for that reason. That was what mattered.

There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but instead he found himself reaching for her, pulling her close and pouring all his unspeakable words into a long, deep kiss, which accelerated quickly. Next thing he knew he was rolling on top of her; being welcomed by all her limbs, which wrapped around him eagerly. He pulled away from the kiss for a moment, to smile down at her and what he saw was a devilish grin. "Now who's making us late?" She teased breathlessly.

"Ah... the good fight can wait, darlin'." He insisted, preparing to recapture her lips. "This most definitely can't."

* * *

 **A/N - So did you like? :D I hope so, because the happy glow from this chapter will have to tide you over through the holiday season. I will be hitting pause until after the New Year. But fear not gentle reader, much more Cordy/Doyle awaits you in 2016. *throws confetti***


	25. The Ring, Pt 1

**A/N- Thanks for your patience! Happy New Year to everyone. Now on with the show...**

* * *

 **"The Ring," Part I**

Doyle and Cordelia exited the elevator and made their way across the underground parking garage where Cordelia's car was parked. Doyle kept his hand casually on the small of her back as they walked. He loved that he could do that, with no objection from her. In fact, he noticed when they walked places nowadays, if he wasn't already touching her, she'd usually reach out for him. It was their way now. It was their norm.

They stopped beside her car and she dug through her purse, searching for her keys. "You coming over?" She asked, finally pulling the keys out of their hiding place and unlocking her driver side door. "We can order takeout, see if there are any good movies on."

"I'd love to, darlin'...but, I have to take a rain check." Doyle answered with a hint of regret. He saw the passing cloud of disappointment on her face. He opened the car door for her and leaned his arm against the top of it. "How 'bout tomorrow? I'll take ya out instead of staying in? Give ya a chance to wear that new dress ya bought."

The clouds parted and the sun appeared, by way of her smile. "I have been wanting to wear that dress."

"And I've been wanting to get ya out of that dress." Doyle replied, waggling his eyebrows salaciously. The dress in question was short and red and left very little to the imagination. If it weren't for the fact that she was planning on being on his arm while she wore it, he might not have been encouraging it at all.

"Okay, down boy. You just rejected my offer for the evening, so for now, you should envision me in sweatpants." She teasingly pushed him away, but then waited for him to kiss her goodnight before she climbed into her car. He gladly complied, capturing her lips all-too-briefly and then closing the door behind her once she was settled in her seat.

He gave her a little wave as she pulled her car out of its space and drove away. As soon as she was gone, he turned to the unseen person who had been hovering nearby. He hadn't wanted to alarm her, but he had been on alert from the moment they'd entered the garage. In his human form Doyle's senses were limited, but he still knew when he was being watched. "Ain't nice to spy on a fella when he's with a lady."

A scruffy-looking blonde guy stepped out from behind a concrete pillar. While not necessarily appearing to be an upstanding citizen, he didn't look terribly threatening either. He had a slight build and nervous eyes. Plus, Doyle knew him. "Sorry, Doyle, man. I didn't mean to. Just didn't want to interrupt, that's all."

"That was thoughtful of ya." Doyle replied sarcastically, approaching the other man. "Long time, no see, Jack."

Jack MacNamara, fellow drinker, gambler and hustler. Doyle would almost call him a friend if he called anyone from that world an actual friend. In any case, he and Jack always had a lot in common. Most especially their habit of owing money to all the wrong people. "It has been a while." Jack agreed with something vaguely resembling a fond smile. "After seeing that looker on your arm, I'm starting to understand why it's been so long. Assuming she's not just a rental?"

Doyle's brows lowered in warning. "You'd best watch what you're implyin' about her possible line of business, bud."

Jack's eyes raised, both surprised and impressed. "Yours, then. Very nice. I'm glad you've found a ball and chain to keep you on the straighter and more narrow path. If I had that, maybe I wouldn't be where I am now."

"Why are ya here, Jack?" Doyle asked impatiently. "If you're looking to borrow money, I've got nothing to lend. Not to mention, you already owe me."

"I do owe you." Jack agreed unhappily, starting to move toward the exit along with Doyle who was doing the same. "I haven't forgotten about that. I'll be paying you back, with interest, just like we agreed. I've got something real big coming in soon. And you've been a good friend, Doyle. Not the type to send someone to remove a few digits. But, Ernie Nellins is that type and I owe him, too."

Doyle could sympathize with Jack's plea, but this wasn't exactly an area he could be of much help. "Yeah, I owe Ernie a little something myself." Doyle commiserated. "Which is why I can't help ya this time, man. Most I can do is buy ya a drink."

They had exited the parking garage and Doyle gestured down the dimly lit street in the direction of most of the local nightlife. Jack nodded his head in acceptance of the offer, which Doyle knew he would. The only thing Jack had ever preferred over cash, was a drink. Again, something he and Doyle had in common.

As they walked, Jack continued his lament. "Even my brother Darin turned his back on me this time." Jack complained, clearly beside himself. "Seriously, Doyle, I'll have the money soon—I'm just looking for time. But Ernie, he already has guys out looking for me—wants to set an example. They're gonna chop me up into tiny pieces and not even have anywhere to mail me, because no one cares! If you can't spot me the cash, then maybe you can do something else...?"

"Not following, man." Doyle responded, offering a perplexed look in Jack's direction. "What else could I do?"

"Well, there's kinda a rumor going 'round, that you've been palling around with some do-gooder vampire these days." Jack said cautiously. "Word is, he's settled some of your debts, kept some guys off your back. That true?"

"And what if it is?" Doyle asked guardedly. "You're asking me to have him do the same for you?"

"Not just for me." Jack pleaded. "For both of us. And for all the other guys who owe Nellins. You know how that guy is—relentless! He's gonna kill me, Doyle."

"I dunno what you've heard, but Angel's not a hitman." Doyle rebutted. "He's not in the habit of taking out humans, even if they're as rotten as Nellins."

Jack stopped walking and turned to face Doyle, desperation coming off him in waves. "He can scare him, though, right? Listen, I'll even sweeten the pot. You get your vampire friend to help me, I'll not only pay you what I owe you with interest, but I'll settle your debt with Nellins, too."

"Ya got that much 'bout to roll in?" Doyle asked skeptically, knowing that was unlikely. Someone like Jack might _think_ he had money about to roll in, when in fact his debt was about to double instead. That was the way the gambling life worked. That's why it was so dangerous.

Jack opened his mouth to speak again, but never had a chance to get the words out. The squeal of tires drowned out whatever he was about to say and next thing Doyle knew it, there were no less than five big guys pouring out of a white van and seizing the two of them.

Doyle threw a few punches, but when he saw the sixth guy get out of the van—the sixth guy being a very large, imposing Howler Demon, Doyle knew he wasn't likely to be winning this fight. As Doyle was knocked to the floor and kicked repeatedly in the ribs, he tried to get a sense of where Jack was, but it was hard to tell. All he heard were a lot of thuds and grunts, which meant somewhere close by Jack was receiving the same treatment as Doyle. One of the human thugs lifted Doyle by his shirt collar and laughed in his face. "Hey... I recognize you. You're making your way to the top of Ernie's list, so maybe we should save ourselves the trouble and just take you along with us now."

Doyle saw the other guys toss Jack into the back of the van and knew that wasn't a place he wanted to follow. The large demon was also near the van, which meant, at most, Doyle had to contend with a couple of humans. If he moved fast, this was his best chance of escape. He waited for the mouthy guy to prepare to hit him, which also meant he had to loosen his grip on Doyle's shirt. He did exactly that and Doyle was able to wrench himself free and then surprise the guy with a head-butt. He then ducked quickly, missing the fist heading his way from the guy behind him and rolled away toward the nearby alley. He stood up as fast as his legs would allow and sprinted off into the darkness.

As soon as he was hidden from their sight, he morphed into his demon form, which gave him an additional boost of speed and the ability to leap over a high wall at the far end of the alley. Once on the other side of the wall, he morphed back into human form, but kept his running pace. He was lucky to have escaped, but his buddy Jack hadn't been nearly as lucky.

* * *

Cordelia sat staring at her computer monitor with mild interest. "For a website with a super-lame title, they sure do have a lot of entries."

Wesley stood up from his chair and circled around to peer over her shoulder curiously at the new online demon database they'd discovered. Cordelia tapped more keys and hit the enter button as if it was a cymbal crash at the end of a drumroll. She was disappointed to find her search came up empty. "Why isn't Wolfram & Hart in here?"

"Because they are lawyers, not demons?" Wesley responded, squinting down at the list of her former searches on the dropdown box.

"Fine line, if you ask me." She muttered, clicking back to one of the pages she'd been reading previously.

"Well, in the very least, you have proven that the database has more information on the mating habits of Brachen demons than I ever cared to know." Wesley commented wryly from over Cordelia's shoulder.

"It's not polite to read over someone's shoulder, Mister I-have-no-sex-life-of-my-own-so-I-must-comment-on-everyone-else's." She snapped back at him, and then raised a finger in warning. "If you tell Doyle about this, I _will_ kill you."

Wesley made a face that indicated he very much believed her. "Why don't you try searching for something else... uh, the Vigories of Oden Tal. Try that one."

A few keystrokes later she shook her head in the negative.

"Nope, not in here." She confirmed.

"So, there is still a place for traditional research." Wesley reacted with visible relief, lifting one of his precious books from the corner of the desk.

"Gee, thank goodness we won't have to stop wasting all those nights skimming through piles of dusty, smelly books that are older than Angel. I was getting worried I might have more time to spend... y'know, _having a life_." Cordelia replied with a dismissive eye roll. "Although, I do see why that would frighten you, Wesley, since your life consists of Jeopardy followed by Wheel of Fortune."

Wesley sputtered, revving up to an actual retort, but he was interrupted by the opening of the front door and a man stumbling through who had definitely not spent the previous evening watching game shows.

"Doyle! Oh my God, what happened?!" Cordelia yelped, jumping out of her seat and racing to Doyle's aid. He had a visible bruise under his swollen left eye as well as a split lip, and he was moving as if he'd been kicked in the ribs repeatedly, which both observers imagined is exactly what had happened. Doyle visibly winced and sucked in breath as Cordelia's arms went around him and she pulled back quickly. "Oh, did that hurt?!"

"Everything hurts this morning, Princess." Doyle confessed. "Never thought I'd say this, but keep your hands to yourself, yeah?"

"What happened to you?" She asked for the second time, furrowing her brow in concern. It was a facial expression she appeared to have picked up from her less human co-workers, who wore it often.

"Ah…I was mugged." Doyle lied easily, not wanting to have to admit to his new girlfriend that he was once again being beaten up by thugs looking to collect on his debts. Not that he was proud of lying to her, but he couldn't take a verbal beat down from her this morning after the physical one he'd sustained the previous evening. "That's what I get for livin' in the neighborhood I do."

"Someone thought you were worth mugging?" Cordelia wondered skeptically. "What'd he want, the ugly shirt off your back or the watch that looks like it came from a cereal box?"

Doyle scrunched his face in reaction to the jabs that rolled off her tongue as they always had. Dating her hadn't changed her honesty-meter. He thought better of arguing, considering it was, in fact, a false story. And her point was valid—Doyle had nothing worth stealing and most people who saw him knew that.

"We are glad you're alright." Wesley spoke up awkwardly from his place by Cordelia's desk. He never knew how to react to Doyle; the half-demon was often very hot and cold with him and Wesley found it best to rock the boat as little as possible in an effort to keep the fragile peace between them.

"Could use something for the pain, love." Doyle hinted to Cordelia, before going to stand in the doorway to Angel's office, seeing that it was empty. He kept an arm absently wrapped around his injured ribs. "Angel hasn't come up yet?"

"He came up. Then he went back down. I think he said something about having a headache." Cordelia responded distractedly, crossing back to her desk and pulling out the bottle of aspirin she kept there expressly for Doyle's use. Her eyes briefly skimmed the label before she apprehensively brought it over to Doyle. "Do you think you have any internal bleeding? 'Cause, if so, you probably shouldn't take this."

Doyle held out a hand for the bottle and gave her a reassuring smile. "Just bruises."

"Internal bleeding can cause bruising to appear on the skin..." Wesley had started to speak, but let the words die as he got a sharp glare from the Irishman himself. "I'm sure it's just regular bruising, in this case."

"Goin' down to talk to Angel." Doyle stated, once again smiling in Cordelia's direction, trying to reassure her that he would be just fine.

And he probably would be as long as she didn't find out what had really happened.

* * *

Doyle took the elevator downstairs and found Angel in his kitchen, pouring himself a mug of pig's blood. "Early lunch or late breakfast?" Doyle asked, approaching the kitchen entryway gingerly. The aspirin wasn't going to do much for the pain he was feeling; what he'd wanted was a bottle of whiskey, but if Cordelia had been worried about the aspirin, he would've hated to see her reaction to him medicating himself with alcohol.

Angel didn't turn around as he stuck the mug in the microwave and pushed a few buttons. "Let's call it a late breakfast. A very late breakfast." Angel grumbled, keeping his back turned. "Just like you, Doyle, who are very _late_. Funny, aside from this morning, Cordelia has also been late the last few weeks, which I'm beginning to think was a blessing, because listening to her and Wesley bicker is enough to make me raid your stash." Angel was tapping his fingers testily on the side of the microwave as he watched the contents begin to bubble. "Don't you think it's about time you snapped out of the honeymoon phase and _both_ started showing up for work on time? Not that I'm not happy for you, because I am, but..." Angel turned around taking in Doyle's appearance for the first time. "What happened?"

Doyle was mildly amused by Angel's tirade. It wasn't like the vampire to whine so much, not this early in the day anyway. But, Doyle had no doubt that listening to a word of wars between Cordelia and Wesley was enough to drive any man to drink. "One word for ya, man. Earplugs."

"Doyle." Angel warned. He didn't have to elaborate, his expression made it clear. He wanted answers and he wanted them now.

"Whatever you're thinking happened, is probably pretty close to accurate." Doyle admitted with a chagrined look. "I was with a pal of mine last night. Name's Jack MacNamara—his debts put mine to shame. Anyway, we were jumped not far from here; he was taken. Pretty sure they were after him, I just got caught up in the mess."

"Jumped by who?" Angel demanded. "Specifically."

"Specifically, a bunch of humans who looked like they could bench press two of me and a Howler Demon who looked like he could bench press all of them combined." Doyle said, wincing as he moved too quickly and caused a sharp pain to stab him in the ribs. "Guy who sent 'em is a bookie by the name of Ernie Nellins. Jack owes him big."

"And you?" Angel asked pointedly, probably already sensing the answer.

"Yeah, I owe him, too." Doyle conceded glumly.

Angel took that in, and a brief flash of disapproval appeared. He opened the microwave and removed the mug he'd previously placed there. "You think they're coming back for you?"

"I dunno, man. Probably not today, but eventually. That's not really the problem at the moment." Doyle moved slowly toward one of the kitchen chairs and eased himself down into it. "Right now, they have Jack and they'll be treating him none too kindly."

Angel sipped thoughtfully from the mug, eyeing Doyle. "This guy Jack. He a good guy?"

"He's not a _bad_ guy." Doyle countered. "Not unlike me, only a tad bit unluckier. Definitely doesn't deserve to be ripped apart by a Howler Demon, that's for sure. If you help him, it'd be like helping me. In fact, he owes me some money, so it really _would_ be helping me."

Angel frowned at that reply, but then slowly nodded. "I can look into it. Tell me where I can find the bookie."

"Thanks, Angel, man." Doyle said gratefully, thinking about standing up from the chair but deciding he wasn't quite ready for that much movement yet.

"This ever gonna end, Doyle?" Angel's voice took Doyle by surprise. He'd thought they were done, but now he was on the receiving end of Angel's best "disappointed dad" glare.

"I'd like to think it will." Doyle replied, swallowing hard at the thought of one day being just as unlucky as Jack and not having Angel to bail him out. "One of these days..."


	26. The Ring, Pt 2

**"The Ring," Part II**

Doyle hung up the phone and deepened his frown. He'd called Kate in the off chance that Angel had contacted her to help with Jack's case. Apparently, he did no such thing, and Kate wasn't in a chatty mood. The abrupt slam of the receiver told him not to bother calling her back to file a missing persons report.

That and, strictly speaking, Angel wasn't exactly a person.

Cordelia entered Angel's office, which Doyle currently occupied. "You just love sitting behind his desk when he's not here." She teased. "Dreaming of Doyle Investigations, are we?"

"He's not back yet." Doyle said agitatedly, pushing back the chair and standing up to pace the floor. "He never checked in with me last night. Nothin' this morning and, in case ya hadn't noticed, darlin', it's a beautiful, sunny day out there. Not so good for Angel's complexion, yeah?"

Cordelia gave Doyle a look that told him she was pretty certain he'd lost his mind. "Okay, drama-boy, take it down a notch." She said, holding up her hands to halt his pacing. "This is Angel you're talking about. Incredibly resourceful, treats those stinky sewer tunnels like they're a second home…. Which, if I'm not mistaken, was accurate at a certain point in his life." She sighed, crossing the room to place her hands soothingly on Doyle's shoulders. "It's really sweet that you're so worried about him, but I'm sure he's fine."

She watched as Doyle dropped his eyes, making it clear that her words hadn't had the right effect. Quite the opposite, in fact. "What aren't you telling me?" She probed, removing her hands from his shoulders and sharpening her gaze. "Did you have a vision? Was he on a case last night?"

"He was on a case. Wasn't a vision. More like a favor." Doyle said reluctantly, realizing that lying to her would be pointless. She could see through most of his lies, and the fact that he'd gotten away with the mugging thing had merely been a fluke. Or, not a fluke—Doyle suspected she hadn't actually bought that lie either, and had merely thrown him a bone due to the amount of pain he was in when he'd told it. "A friend of mine ran into some trouble the other night. Angel went to have a chat with the guy responsible… a bookie."

"A bookie?!" Cordelia squawked. "So, this 'friend' of yours—did he happen to break dinner plans with his girlfriend because he got his ribs kicked in? Is that why Angel needs to help him?!"

Doyle tilted his head down, angling his eyes in her direction. "I'm not trying to be clever, Cordy—"

"You can say that again!" She bit back.

He rubbed his eyes in frustration. "You're right in thinking that's how I got beaten, okay. But, there really is a friend in trouble. He got more than just a beating for his debts—he got abducted by guys who rather enjoy taking fellas apart piece by piece. Angel went to see that doesn't happen and now Angel's gone missing, too."

Cordelia observed him coolly, finally appearing to believe what he was telling her. Her gaze hardened and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, you're just going to have to follow in Angel's footsteps, aren't you?"

The thought had occurred to Doyle, but it probably wouldn't end well for him. "Yeah, I suppose I have a little something that might be of interest to Ernie Nellins."

"What's that?" Cordelia asked huffily.

"Me." Doyle replied with a shrug. "I'm next on the guy's list—figure I go in there, offer to trade myself for Angel, at least you'll get him back and maybe—"

"Hold it right there! That's your grand plan to save Angel?! We march in to Jack the Ripper's lair and offer up your head on a platter?!" Cordelia exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief. "As plans go, I'd have to give that one the award for _worst possible plan ever_!"

"I'm not saying I particularly like that plan, darlin', but there aren't a lotta other options." Doyle pointed out. He noticed that Wesley was hovering quietly in the doorway with a bemused expression. Doyle gave him a dismissive look, hoping he knew better than to crowbar his way into this private conversation, which was admittedly much louder than most private conversations probably should be.

"Okay, yes, we need to save Angel. And yes, you should feel pretty damn bad this happened, Doyle. But, trading _you_ for him isn't an option. In case you forgot, he's a vampire and you're only half Brachen. Vampires are immortal and heal super fast. Brachens, _not so much_. If these guys are looking to chop someone up into little itty bitty pieces, better Angel than you. Assuming they leave his head in place and don't use anything wooden in the heart region, he'll survive."

"Ahem."

Wesley had cleared his throat. So, apparently Doyle's death glare hadn't been enough to keep him from sticking his nose where it most certainly did not belong. "I believe I have a solution." He said, squaring his shoulders and puffing his chest out. Doyle hated when he did that—it reminded him of a bird trying to convince its predators it was a fellow predator rather than a tasty entrée.

"Yeah, what's that?" Doyle begrudgingly questioned the Englishman.

"Well…" Wesley said stepping further into the room that Doyle and Cordelia were occupying. "This Nellins fellow doesn't know me. I could go talk to him in your stead. See what information I can dig up."

Doyle snorted derisively. "You wanna go talk to Ernie? No offense, mate, but I don't think ya quite realize what this guy is capable of. How much muscle he has around him at all times. You're not gonna be able to prance into his place and have a cuppa tea with the guy."

"No, I rather think not." Wesley agreed. "But, I will be able to bring weapons. Lots and lots of weapons."

Wesley stood motionless after his declaration, still puffing himself up like an overstuffed turkey. Doyle's utter derision gave way to more of a reserved reluctance. In the very least, he knew Wesley could handle a gun, and guns tended to work on most people, Ernie included.

"Thank you, Wesley. That seems like a much more reasonable plan. One that may not result in the removal of digits or appendages." Cordelia said evenly. "Doyle will be your getaway driver."

"Oh, I will, will I?" Doyle asked, shooting a glare back at Cordelia.

"It's the least you can do for getting us into this mess!" She huffed, stomping out of the room to help round up some weapons for Wesley.

* * *

Doyle sat anxiously in the car, not loving the whole getaway driver job. All the anxiety, none of the action. Who knew he actually liked the action? It sort of reminded Doyle of the first night he'd met Cordelia. He would try and not let Angel's car meet the same fate this time.

He'd almost gotten out to rush to Wesley's rescue twice already—not that he knew if Wesley needed rescuing or not. He merely assumed that was probably the case, and wondered for the umpteenth time how he'd been convinced to go along with this plan. The third time, Doyle actually got out of the car and headed to the door. Whether he would've gone in or not is anyone's guess, because as he approached the door, it opened and Wesley was hurrying himself out. He had a gun in one hand and a crossbow in the other and he broke into a run, nodding Doyle back to the vehicle across the street. Doyle hadn't needed to be told—he'd booked back toward the car, slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, peeling away from the curb even before Wesley had his passenger side door shut completely.

Wesley was breathing heavily as Doyle drove like a maniac, nervously sneaking a peek in the rear-view mirror. There was no one following them. No one had even so much as stepped out of Ernie's bar to see where Wesley had gone. Doyle slowed down to a more reasonable speed, and tried to regulate his vital signs the way he regulated the car's accelerator.

"I know where Angel is." Wesley said abruptly, still partially out of breath, but also visibly excited. "Seems Mr. Nellins was very forthcoming once a gun was pointed in his face."

"And you pointed that gun, did ya?" Doyle asked, more than a little impressed. "Gotta say, Wesley, didn't think you had it in ya to stand up to a guy like Nellins. Maybe I'll call ya when he inevitably comes looking to break my kneecaps, yeah?"

"I don't believe you'll have to worry about that scenario unfolding." Wesley replied, his brows wrinkling in something resembling bewilderment. "I was told your debt's been settled."

Doyle nearly drove Angel's car right off the road. "Settled?! Where'd ya get that kinda money?"

"It wasn't settled by me." Wesley clarified with obvious distaste. "Apparently your friend, Jack, felt he owed you. Whatever payday he received for acquiring Angel must have been fairly sizable and, I suppose, he was feeling... generous."

Again Doyle found himself in danger of swerving into oncoming traffic. The words Wesley had just said weren't making sense. "Wait... Jack did what?"

"I hate to be the one to break this to you, Doyle, but you were set up. Jack orchestrated this whole thing along with someone named Darin."

"That's his brother." Doyle responded distractedly, still reeling from the blow of having been stabbed in the back. He probably shouldn't have found it difficult to believe that Jack would betray him. Maybe the confusing part was that Jack felt he needed to repay his debt to Doyle in the process. As if Doyle's gambling debt meant more than Angel's life, which to a guy like Jack, who had no one and nothing, that might seem true. Although, from the sound of things, he may have gotten back into the good graces of his older brother.

Doyle had never liked Darin—never liked the way he'd dangle his support and approval just out of Jack's reach. Doyle had no doubt that Jack's involvement in the scam had everything to do with Darin's influence. Not that it made it any easier to stomach. Either way, Doyle had been hustled, and Angel was currently paying the price.

"Tell me everything." Doyle gritted between his teeth, gripping the steering wheel tight and imagining it as the neck of Darin MacNamara.

* * *

Cordelia's heels tapped against the concrete as she followed closely behind Doyle and Wesley toward the long line of people waiting behind a velvet rope. Looking at all the extremely well dressed individuals, Cordelia couldn't understand why Doyle had made such a big fuss about her coming along. If anything, she fit in with this crowd way better than either of her fashion-challenged companions, with her classy little black dress and killer shoes. Doyle had kept insisting it might be dangerous—pssh, as if she hadn't been in plenty of dangerous situations before. If Doyle was so worried about her safety, then maybe he'd think twice before getting them into these kinds of situations in the first place. He should consider it payback for all the times she's made herself sick worrying about him.

She'd told him exactly that and it had shut him up quickly enough. Maybe she should have stopped there, but she was so annoyed at him that she'd really laid it on thick that Wesley would surely save her, if need be. After all, Wesley was the eldest and most responsible member of the Angel Investigations team, aside from Angel himself, of course. Look how much Wesley had already done to help Angel. He was the one who'd gotten the address, without getting himself cut into tiny pieces. He was the one who didn't owe a ton of money to half the bookies in the city.

What had Doyle done in all this? Aside from getting Angel abducted in the first place!

Now Doyle was pouting. She had made Doyle pout. She almost would've felt bad about it, if she didn't also want to throttle him for his monumentally terrible life choices. Sure, she'd known a little something about his gambling debts—she'd seen the nasty looking demon that was sent after him the last time. But, she hadn't considered the possibility that there'd be other bigger, nastier things after him. Nor had she considered that those big nasties might want to abduct him and return him to her in small pieces. She'd thought of his gambling the way she thought of his drinking—a bad habit, a nuisance and, at worst, an occasional embarrassment. She hadn't really thought about the level of mortal danger involved.

Even more of a reason why she needed to give him a taste of his own medicine. If he wouldn't put a stop to this bad behavior for his own sake, maybe he'd think better of it if he thought she'd be in danger, too. She could only hope, anyway.

She watched as Doyle smoothly sauntered up to the doorman and, much to Cordelia's amazement, had the guy laughing within five minutes and waving the three of them in the door in under ten. Damn him and his Irish charm. He did have a way with people, herself included. No wonder she'd fell for him despite her best efforts to do _anything but_. He was frustratingly likeable even when you didn't want to like him. Nearly impossible to stay mad at, even when he was deserving of ire. It was his way.

Of course, her way was to make sure he knew she wasn't falling for his way. Not this time. No siree. He was in the doghouse for the time being. And he'd stay there indefinitely… or at least until they saved Angel. Whichever came first.

The crowd inside the club was dense, which was probably a good thing since there were quite a few individuals who would recognize Doyle if given the chance. He'd worn a hat for that reason, and kept his head tilted downward. That, plus the suit he'd chosen made him look like a wannabe-gangster from the 20s. Cordelia had to admit—to herself, not to him—he looked pretty damn sexy in that get up. Which only annoyed her more—he always managed to look more attractive than usual when she was angry with him.

Despite her reluctance to forgive him his transgressions so quickly, Cordelia reflexively grabbed his elbow, staying close to his back. She didn't actually want to be separated from him in a place like this. Plus, all dressed up like this, they made quite an attractive pair. She might as well take advantage of it, since it happened so rarely.

Wesley didn't look too bad either. For Wesley.

As they weaved through the hallway they began to hear chanting, which became deafening as they headed directly toward the main arena. "Killing blow! Killing blow!" Finally, they came to the source of the uproarious crowd—a large square room with a deep fighting pit cut into the center. And in that pit was Angel, just finishing off a nasty looking demon.

The crowd went wild.

An announcer's voice filled the air. "Official time: 7 minutes 33 seconds. This marks the first of what promises to be many more killed by the vampire! Angel!"

Cordelia's jaw dropped reflexively. Not that it was shocking to see Angel kill a demon. But, to see him do it before a bloodthirsty crowd made it feel entirely different. Wrong, even.

"How do we get him out of there?" She had pulled both Doyle and Wesley close enough that they might hear her over the roaring crowd.

Doyle pointed toward a silver band on Angel's wrist. "I'm thinkin' we can't as long as he's wearing that thing."

"Quite right, Doyle. See that red line that borders the entire ring? Should someone wearing one of those bracelets attempt to cross that threshold, they'd be disintegrated instantly."

"What happened to good old fashioned shackles?" Cordelia wondered in dismay.

Doyle and Wesley looked equally disheartened as Angel turned his back on the crowd and skulked into a doorway under the pit.

"Those things have some kinda key?" Doyle directed his question toward Wesley, skimming his eyes around the room for anyone who might look like a guard or demon-wrangler.

"I'm afraid not." Wesley replied regretfully. "They were most likely forged by ancient sorcerers. I may be able to come up with a way to open them, but not without having one in my possession to study."

Doyle was still looking around the room when suddenly he dipped his head, turning away from a man in a suit who was barking orders at several other men. "Jack's brother, Darin." He stated, keeping his head toward Cordelia and Wesley. "He knows me. Time to get outta here, yeah?"

Cordelia peeked over Doyle's shoulder at the brown-haired man of medium height and build. Everything about him screamed bland, everything about him was… _overcompensating_. Then she spotted the item he was idly toying with—the same bracelet they'd seen on Angel's wrist. He was clutching it loosely and then he placed it down on the railing beside him. Cordelia knew what she had to do; what only she could do.

"Just gimme a sec." She said, pushing by Doyle and making her way across the fight room, toward the man from whom Doyle was shielding his face. She heard him gruffly call her name, but she was already out of his reach and he couldn't follow her without being seen. She didn't have to look back to know he was scowling with disapproval.

She pulled off her coat as she sidled up next to Darin MacNamara, leaning over the edge of the railing to peer down at the demon corpse below. In doing so, she also managed to place her coat over the bracelet that had been carelessly left on the railing.

Bingo.

Darin turned as he felt pressure against his arm and his look of annoyance quickly changed to one laced with appreciation. "Can I help you, miss?" He asked, doing his best to sound charming, but all Cordelia heard was sleaze.

"Oh, I was just wondering if they ever come out to sign autographs after they're done?" She batted her eyelashes up at him and gave him one of her most dazzling smiles. He, in turn, smiled right back. Or, maybe smarmed was a more accurate description.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but we don't usually allow the demons to interact with…um… fans." He said, raking his eyes over her in a way that made Cordelia's skin crawl.

"That's too bad." She answered with an exaggerated pout.

"But, maybe if you tell me which one strikes your fancy, I'll see what I can do. Maybe arrange a _private_ tour of our backstage area. That is, if you're planning on coming back, Miss…?"

"Monroe." She said quickly. "Marilyn Monroe."

Darin's eyebrows furrowed at her name choice and Cordelia mentally kicked herself. It wasn't exactly the most conspicuous name she could have chosen for herself. She burst into laughter, hoping it covered her nerves. "That was a joke, of course. We Monroes just love the Marilyn humor. My name's actually… Judy."

Darin nodded skeptically, but kept smiling at her regardless. "Alright, Judy Monroe, let me see if I can guess which of our fighters caught your eye. Don't tell me… it was our newcomer. The vampire. Is that, right?"

"How'd you guess?" She asked with faux-enthusiasm.

"Oh, I don't know, something told me he'd be quite popular with the ladies. That broad from Wolfram & Hart's already offered to buy him for a pretty penny. Wonder if it's for business or _personal use_?" He pointed to an attractive brunette by the doorway. She had the stink of evil lawyer all over her. Cordelia's face fell at the thought of Angel being bought by Wolfram  & Hart. They could probably do way worse to him than this demon circus.

"Not to worry, though. I think I'll be keeping him around." Darin assured her, observing her crestfallen expression. "I guarantee you he will be fighting _bare-chested_ … right until he gets his heart ripped out." He winked at Cordelia as he said that last part and Cordelia tried to contain the bile from rising to her throat. Not because she had an aversion to Angel's bare chest, but merely because she preferred his non-beating heart to remain inside of it.

"Wonderful!" She chirped, forcing her mouth back into a shape that vaguely resembled a smile. She took a few steps backward, keeping the silver bracelet safely hidden beneath the folds of the coat she had over her arms. "Something to look forward to."

"This is my place, Miss Monroe." Darin said, twirling his finger around the room with a leer. "Come see me next time and I'll see about that _private tour_."

Cordelia kept back stepping until Darin's focus was pulled away from her and then she turned and raced into the thinning crowd. She almost jumped out of her skin as an arm suddenly reached out and grabbed her by the bicep. It was Doyle, and he did not look pleased. He said nothing, merely shaking his head at her and guiding her to the closest exit, where Wesley stood nervously waiting. Relief poured over his face as he pushed the door open and three of them made their way back onto the crowded street outside.

They shuffled away from the crowd and that was when Doyle finally reeled toward Cordelia, eyes flashing in belated distress. "What the hell were ya thinkin'?!" He choked out. "Did ya see the way Darin was lookin' at ya?!"

"Of course, I saw!" She snapped back at him. "How do you think I was able to swipe this without him noticing?!"

She whipped out the bracelet she had slipped safely into her pocket and watched as both Wesley and Doyle's jaws dropped in silent awe. Doyle quickly recovered, all the anger draining away, replaced by a proud grin. "I could kiss ya."

"As if I'd let you!" She snorted back, lest he think he'd made his way out of the doghouse just yet. His face dropped back into the pout that had started the evening.

"Well…" Wesley sputtered, taking the magical wrist-cuff from her to examine it closer. "I do say, that was an impressive bit of detective work, Cordelia."

"Oh, and I also got a private invitation to tour the backstage area, so Wesley, if you can figure out how to make a key for that mystical handcuff thingie, I'm pretty sure I can get it to Angel." She haughtily turned on her heel, strutting ahead of the two of them on the way back to the car. "Now who's glad I came along, huh?"


	27. The Ring, Pt 3

**"The Ring, Part III"**

ZAP!

Doyle raised a skeptical brow as he watched Wesley nearly electrocute himself. Again.

Apparently whatever magic had been infused into that cuff had an impressively high voltage of electricity running through it. And so far, it wasn't looking like there'd be a way to open the thing without barbecuing whoever was wearing it.

Doyle turned away from Angel's kitchen where Wesley worked and sunk down on the couch, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The heavy feeling in his chest caused his shoulders to slump and generally speaking, he would have liked the ability to sink through the floorboards right about now. Cordelia was right. He'd done nothing aside from get Angel into this mess. Doyle of all people—the person chosen to stand by Angel's side and keep him fighting the good fight—had now put Angel in a position that could end with his death. To say Doyle felt like a failure, didn't even cover it.

He lifted his head as he felt the couch cushions shift. Cordelia had sat down beside him, bringing her disapproving scowl along with her. She'd been wearing that face a lot in the last 24 hours, only adding insult to injury.

"Having yourself a pity-party-of-one?" She inquired, arching a brow. Her body language told him she wasn't likely to be comforting him any time soon.

Doyle dropped his head back down. "It's my fault." He said simply. "Ya said it yourself. I put Angel in that ring. If he dies in there, that'll be on me."

"Yeah, it is your fault." Cordelia agreed unsympathetically. "But, Angel's not gonna die. We're gonna save him. Have a little faith."

Another audible sizzle of electricity and a yelp from Wesley told Doyle otherwise.

"It shoulda never happened." Doyle muttered, more to himself than to her. "I shouldn't have been here to cause this. If that Beacon had done its job, Angel would be fine and—"

"You'd be dead." Cordelia's voice had changed as she completed his thought. Her disappointment only deepened. "Geez, Doyle. Dark much?" She shook her head and shifted further away from him on the couch, allowing the tension to occupy the space between them.

She didn't know the truth. She didn't know that Doyle was supposed to die. She didn't know that she'd lived an entire other life without him. She didn't know that she's the one who had changed things so he could remain there. He'd thought about telling her, but hadn't wanted to intimidate her with the expectations of a future version of herself who would likely never exist. Nor had he wished to burden her with the knowledge of a future that would _hopefully_ never come to pass—no one should know that much about their future, whether good or bad.

If he continued to fail as spectacularly as he was currently failing, he didn't want there to be the smallest kernel of blame inside of her. The burden was his alone. Even Angel had accepted that—asking almost nothing about the vision that had been passed to Doyle that held clues to their future. He'd accepted what the Oracles had confirmed. This timeline was Doyle's responsibility, for better or for worse. Angel had faith in Doyle's ability to handle that responsibility, and this was how Doyle repaid him...

"This whole defeatist attitude has really got to go." Cordelia's frustrated voice cut back into his internal condemnation. "For one thing, you're taking all the fun out of me being angry at you. Instead of putting you in the doghouse, like you deserve, I feel like I'm kicking a puppy." Finally shifting his eyes back in her direction, he proceeded to give her what constituted as the weakest smile in human existence. She didn't smile back, but her rigid features had softened. "You made a mistake—that's something that people do. And fixing mistakes, that's something else that people do. So, more with the fixing and less with the oh-whoa-is-me I'd-be-better-off-dead stuff, okay?"

"Okay." Doyle agreed without much conviction. He turned his head to look back at Wesley who was very slowly and carefully attempting to touch a small metal object against the wrist cuff.

ZAP!

* * *

Angel vs. Trepkos

It was up there on the board. Trepkos was the favorite, seeing how tonight would make his 21st kill. After 21 kills he would walk free. Doyle doubted he even needed the incentive.

"Do you see Darin anywhere?" Cordelia asked from Doyle's side. He turned to look at her again. She always looked incredible, but tonight...

"Did ya have to wear the red one?" He complained, admiring the flattering fit of the dress he'd been expecting her to wear for his benefit, rather than Darin MacNamara's.

"Consider it part of your punishment." She retorted, giving him a smile that told him she had worn it for exactly that purpose. Torture. He didn't even attempt to hide his resulting frown.

"I do believe your man is by the bar." Wesley interjected from his place behind them, causing them both to turn in the direction he'd indicated.

"Alright, love. Much as I hate this plan, the mark's awaitin'." He said indicating the unsuspecting Darin. "You have your phone and the pepper spray?" She nodded, patting the small purse she had slung over her shoulder. "I'll stay close. Don't hesitate to scream if he puts his hands anywhere he shouldn't be putting 'em, yeah?"

She patted Doyle's shoulder reassuringly and sauntered away, swinging her hips in a way that brought more than one pair of eyes in her direction. Oh yeah, this was definitely punishment alright.

"I'll be on the main floor." Wesley's voice barely permeated Doyle's tunnel vision, as he watched his girlfriend attract Darin to herself like a magnet to steel. She had him, hook, line and sinker; it wasn't long before Darin gestured for her to follow him out of the bar area and down a set of stairs.

Doyle waited a beat and then followed them down the stairs, relieved there was no one there to stop him. At the bottom of the staircase, he came to a long hallway—Darin and Cordelia were walking the length of it toward a doorway with a lone guard. His jaw clenched tightly as he observed that Darin's hand was placed firmly on Cordelia's ass, and he'd heard nothing in the way of screaming. He tried to contain the sudden desire to race down the hall and deck the guy. Instead, he slid in and out of the small alcoves along the shadowy hallway, careful to stay out of the guard's sight. He'd made it three quarters of the way, when he figured he couldn't reasonably get any closer without giving himself away. Now he had to wait—if he'd thought waiting in the car while Wesley dealt with Ernie Nellins was a tough job, this was significantly worse. He imagined all sorts of terrible things happening to Cordelia back there, and even if she did scream, Doyle couldn't be sure he'd hear her. He could only hope she'd toss the makeshift key to Angel before anything untoward could happen.

The announcer's voice echoed from the main fight arena down into the hallway where Doyle hid—it was Angel being announced in the ring above. Uh oh.

Doyle started to panic, wondering if Cordelia had been able to pass Angel the key before he entered the ring, or if she was now trapped backstage with Darin MacNamara, a cage full of demons, and no Angel in sight. Doyle prepared himself to charge, when he heard a voice that made his breath release. It was Darin, exiting the backstage area. Cordelia wasn't with him, however, which made Doyle nervous all over again. What if Jack had been backstage? What if he had recognized Cordelia from the night she was with Doyle? He watched as Darin muttered something to the guard and then disappeared up another staircase, rushing to be on the main fight floor for the spectacle.

It was another long few minutes before Doyle heard the telltale sound of Cordelia's heels clacking along the tile floor. He peeked cautiously around the edge of his alcove to see her looking un-mussed, leading him to take an official sigh of relief. She didn't look like so much as a hair was out of place; no sign that she'd had any trouble with Darin or anyone else backstage. The guard, however, was another story. He placed an arm out to block her path—his arm being the size of a small tree-trunk. "Sorry, miss. The MacNamara requested that you stay here until he returns."

"I'll come back later. I can't miss this fight." She insisted, still playing her role of Angel's biggest fan.

The guard didn't move a muscle. Didn't look like he ever would. "Sorry. I have my orders."

"Oh, you do, do you?!" She huffed, opening her purse and pawing through it, probably in an attempt to find her pepper spray. The guard silently pulled the purse out of her hand. "Heeeeey! That's my personal property, buddy! Give it back or else you'll find yourself in the unemployment line real soon! Right after I tell your boss how rude you were to his very special guest!"

"I wouldn't want you to do anything you'll regret, miss." The guard said warningly, grabbing her around waist. "The MacNamara told me to keep you here. He never specified what condition you needed to stay in."

Doyle had already started to move rapidly down the hallway even before he heard the big brute threaten his girlfriend with certain violence. "Hey, bud. Why don't ya pick on someone your own size and leave the lady alone?!"

The guard still had Cordelia in his clutches as he turned toward Doyle and laughed derisively. "You?" He snorted. "You're not even half my size."

"Yeah, I didn't say ya should pick on me either." Doyle retorted, coming up beside the guard and placing a hand on the guy's arm in an attempt to yank it off of Cordelia. It didn't budge. She squirmed in protest against the unbreakable grip.

"Get your gorilla paws off of me!" She howled, beating an ineffectual fist against the rock of a man before her. Doyle could've attempted to punch the guy, but figured he'd likely only end up with a sprained wrist and bruised knuckles—neither of which would get Cordelia out of the guy's arms.

That's when Doyle morphed into his demon face and head-butted the guy without warning. Being head-butted never felt particularly good; being head-butted by a demon with a face full of spikes felt considerably worse. The guard let go of Cordelia and raised his hands to feel the multitude of bloody pinprick wounds he now had covering his face. The noise he made sounded like a wounded boar. Doyle didn't give him much time to recover, lifting an elbow to catch the guy in the solar plexus and then finally, reeling back for a punch. His demon strength afforded him the ability to strike a knockout blow, without breaking his digits.

"Are ya okay?" Doyle asked, morphing back to his human face as he picked her purse up off the floor and handed it back to her unceremoniously.

She was looking him up and down in shock that gave way to something more like appreciation. "That was... kinda hot. If it weren't for the fact that our boss is in mortal danger and I'm still supposed to be pissed at you, I'd be yanking you into one of these dark alcoves."

"Well, that certainly gives me hope that ya do plan on forgivin' me at some point." He supposed. "Now about that whole 'boss being in mortal danger' bit...?"

Her face fell, giving him an answer before she could elaborate. "Some icky demon guy with a lizard-tongue took the key before I could get it to Angel!" She whined in frustration. "And he wouldn't give it back!"

"Ah… well, we can only hope he'll use it wisely." Doyle hoped, ushering her toward the staircase and then turning to look at the now unguarded doorway. He paused, causing her to pause as well. "Maybe I should see if I can find Jack. He and I have some unfinished business."

"There are a lot more guards back there, Doyle." She told him, tugging gently on his arm, urging him to follow her up the stairway. "And Angel is up there, fighting for his life."

As much as he wanted to go give Jack a piece of his mind—not to mention, fist—he saw the wisdom in her argument. He could do nothing for Angel if he got himself put down by a bunch of guards. He turned back toward her and gestured up the stairs.

His business with Jack would be settled before the night was through; of that, Doyle had no doubt. For now, Angel's life was the priority.


	28. The Ring, Pt 4

**"The Ring," Part IV**

Once Cordelia and Doyle made it to the fight room, they pushed their way to the front of the pit where Wesley looked on in mild horror. Doyle only had to take one look at Angel to see that he wasn't doing well inside the ring. Worse than that, it appeared he was doing very little to change the momentum. He wasn't even fighting back.

The crowd was unenthusiastic, to say the least. Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle could see Darin barking orders to the guards below to "motivate" Angel to do more than get his ass kicked. They responded by prepping their cattle prods.

That was it. Doyle wasn't about to waste another minute standing around and doing nothing while Angel got beaten to a bloody pulp. They had passed the point of any reasonable or logical plan and now it was necessary to play things fast and loose. He charged for Darin, feeling Wesley and Cordelia following at his heels. He couldn't worry about what they would do to back him up, but he knew they'd figure something out, which gave him an extra surge of adrenaline.

Darin had sensed Doyle's approach and turned around, revealing a surprised expression at the familiar face before him. Doyle lunged at the slightly taller man, yanking him forward by the shirt collar and growling angrily. He was more than a little tempted to go demon face again, but he held it back for now. He wanted this weasel to have to look his human face in the eye.

Darin's eyes darted toward Cordelia and Wesley over Doyle's shoulder and he snorted contemptuously. "Marilyn Monroe. I should've known. No one ever wants to get that close to the demons."

"Tell your men to stop this fight right now." Doyle ordered, shaking Darin roughly.

"Why would I ever do that?" Darin cackled in Doyle's face, making it clear that he didn't feel threatened by Doyle's show of anger.

Wesley stepped up beside Doyle, pulled a gun out from his inside coat pocket, cocked it and pointed it at Darin's head. "I suspect you'll do it to avoid having your brain splattered on the wall behind you." Doyle had to hand it to Wesley, he sounded like a man who wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger. No wonder Ernie Nellins had sung like a canary.

"That won't stop the fight." Darin retorted, but he did look somewhat unnerved to have a gun in his face, as any mortal man would.

"Take me to Jack!" Doyle commanded, still not letting go of Darin's collar. "We'll see if he can be more reasonable, yeah?"

"Jack's dead." Darin spat back, not looking like a man who was mourning the death of his only brother. "He made a stupid move and it cost him. Something I think you're pretty familiar with, isn't that right, Doyle?"

"Real broken up, are ya?" Doyle swallowed, feeling a lump rise in his throat at the news of Jack's death. Although, he'd wanted to pulverize the guy for setting him up, he couldn't say that he'd ever wanted him dead. Maybe there was still a little too much similarity between he and Jack to digest the other man's death properly.

"I doubt anyone will mourn that loser. You included." Darin's hateful words caused Doyle to grip his collar tighter, twisting it to cut off the man's air supply. Darin sputtered, but kept choking out more words anyway. "He actually did speak quite highly of you... not that it stopped him from using you for a sweet payday. First time in a long time I was actually impressed with my good-for-nothing little brother." Doyle pushed Darin backwards so his back was against the barrier of the ring. "That's what happens when you're friends with a degenerate gambler! Can't trust them! Can't rely on them! Jack was a dead man walking long before I put a bullet in him."

Doyle's blood was boiling, and his fingers had long since left Darin's collar and had wrapped around his neck instead.

That's when all hell broke loose.

Demons streamed into the pit below, none of them wearing the bracelets that would limit them to the confines of said pit. The onlookers didn't need to be told to evacuate. One look at the fearsome demon warriors who now had their freedom and everyone went from cheering wildly to running for their lives. Granted, it was the guards who were being torn apart most readily.

Doyle, utterly disgusted with the man he had in his clutches, used all his weight to shove Darin backwards, thrusting him over the side of the pit. Darin landed on the floor below, and was immediately seized by one of the demon-fighters. Better the demons ripped him apart than Doyle do it himself. Although, the thought of having Darin's blood on his hands didn't really bother him all that much. It was for Jack—a final evening of the score.

Amidst the chaos below, Doyle saw Angel also free from his cuff and barely able to stand.

* * *

Doyle sat on the small green couch in the upper office, looking up as the elevator in Angel's office appeared and the figures of Cordelia and Wesley stepped out.

Angel had been in bad shape when they'd taken him out of the pit and led him to the car parked down the street. He couldn't stand on his own, much less walk. Doyle and Wesley had each taken one of his arms, around their shoulders and helped him stumble along. Doyle had begun apologizing almost immediately, but he could tell Angel was in no mood to hear anything he had to say. In fact, Angel had actually halted their progress toward the car and retracted his arm away from Doyle, reaching for Cordelia's support instead. She gave it without hesitation, affording Doyle a small sympathetic shrug as she and Wesley proceeded to support Angel's weight the rest of the way.

Doyle had driven them all back to the office, remaining quiet the entirety of the ride. While the two real heroes of the night brought Angel down to his bed, where his body could rest as it healed itself, Doyle stayed upstairs alone. It's not that Doyle didn't want to go down and tend to Angel—that was, in fact, the only thing he wanted to do. He doubted Angel would welcome it, though.

Cordelia had crossed through both offices and stopped in front of Doyle abruptly. He lifted his head to look questioningly into her eyes. He wasn't sure where he stood with her right about now either. He knew she was planning on forgiving him eventually, he just wasn't sure if now was that time. However, she must've thought he'd been through enough self-flagellation to suffice, because she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You should go down and talk to him." She recommended softly.

She didn't wait for a response, merely leaning down to brush her lips lightly against Doyle's, confirming that whatever anger had been aimed at him over the last 72 hours had now dissipated. Angel was back, Angel was safe, Angel would heal. And Doyle was sorry—so incredibly sorry. Cordelia knew that, and it wasn't actually her forgiveness that he needed most.

Stepping away from Doyle and sweeping her jacket over her shoulders, she walked over to Wesley who was still hovering in the front doorway and linked her arm through his. "Walk me to my car, Wesley?"

"Oh yes, of course." He stammered, seeing her out the door in a gentlemanly fashion. "Goodnight, Doyle."

Once alone, Doyle braced himself for impact. Cordelia had told him to talk to Angel, which is what he wanted to do. He'd thought in the very least, he'd sleep on the couch upstairs and check in on the vampire in the pre-dawn hours when he was sure to be unconscious. But talking was better. Doyle would definitely not get a moment's rest until he had a chance to clear the air with Angel.

So, down the stairs he crept. In the apartment below, he found the bruised, battered and bloodied body of his best friend lying in bed, eyes closed. However, Doyle had barely peeked into the bedroom when Angel's eyes flipped lazily open—making it clear that he'd sensed Doyle's presence there and didn't feel it was necessary to fake slumber in order to get rid of him.

"I'll get ya some blood, yeah?" Doyle said uneasily standing in the doorway. He noted Angel's almost imperceptible nod and took that for acceptance of Doyle's desire to help. He went to the kitchen and busied himself, pouring a mug of pig's blood and warming it up just the way Angel liked it. He ransacked a few drawers, searching for one of those bendy straws; he found one and placed it in the warm beverage. Then, he brought it to the vampire's bedside and watched with relief as Angel took the mug and drank heartily from it. He needed it. It would help him heal.

"Ah… listen, man. I know there's nothin' I can say that'll make this right—"

"I forgive you." Angel had stopped sucking from the straw in order to interrupt Doyle in a calm voice.

"Huh?!" Doyle was struck dumb for a moment, wondering why Angel wouldn't at least hold some degree of resentment toward Doyle for the painful and life-threatening ordeal. Doyle sure as hell did. "Ya don't even want me to finish with the groveling and such? I had a whole thing rehearsed, where I'd offer to do all sorts of menial tasks in an attempt to win back your approval."

Angel almost smiled at that as he placed the mug down on the small table beside his bed. "I know you didn't mean for this to happen. I know you're sorry, and I'm not going to hang this over your head or make you jump through hoops to make it up to me."

Doyle could hear the caveat hanging in the air, so he filled in the blank. "But…? There is a but, yeah?"

"But…" Angel agreed. "It's bad enough your lifestyle puts _you_ in danger. This time, it put someone other than you in danger. We're just lucky that someone was _me_. What if it's Cordelia next time? How would you ever live with that?"

"I wouldn't." Doyle acknowledged, barely finding his voice.

"No, you wouldn't. And neither could I, because I got her into this. I hired her. I encouraged her to trust you. Her job's dangerous enough as it is. She shouldn't be dating someone who's painting a target on her back."

Doyle hated the words he was hearing, mostly because he knew they were true. Most of the time, the kind of guys he dealt with stayed clear of women and children, focusing on the men who owed them. But, there were always those stories of the innocent bystanders getting in the way or being used as leverage. Doyle never wanted to put Cordelia—or anyone else—in that position.

"So, I forgive you." Angel continued, repeating his absolution from earlier. "But next time I won't be bailing you out. Not for trouble you could easily avoid. And if there's anything Cordelia needs to be warned about—she will be warned. Understood?"

Doyle thought of Jack. Poor dead Jack with no one left to mourn him. He was pretty sure that wasn't the way he wanted to go. Not the dead part, or the alone part.

"Yeah, I understand." Doyle replied, shifting his weight uncomfortably. The implication was clear. Doyle himself was the one expected to warn Cordelia of any impending danger, and if he didn't, Angel wouldn't hesitate to do so himself. Regardless of the personal ramifications. "I promise ya, man. She's not gonna need that warning, 'cause there won't be a next time."

* * *

 **A/N- I just wanted to address the question about whether or not this series will continue on to Season Two and beyond. I was just waiting until the end of the episode to interrupt the flow, because I'm weird like that. ;)**

 **So, the answer is... there will *probably* be a Season Two (assuming there are still people who want to read more after Season One is over). It could be a fun challenge since the second season is so different, tonally and structurally, from the first. As for anything beyond Season Two, it's too soon to say. I do have a pretty cool idea for Season Three, if I should ever get that far. But, I have a lot of writing to do before then!**

 **I am really glad you're enjoying this story enough to be worrying about the future, and I'll do my best to get as far as I can without losing my mojo.** **I can't thank you enough for reading and for the positive feedback. It certainly motivates me to keep going. :)**


	29. Eternity, Pt 1

**"Eternity," Part I**

"Could ya quit complainin' for five minutes and just tell her the things ya _liked_ about the play?" Doyle begged his two reluctant companions. "As a favor to me, if nothing else."

Doyle, along with Angel and Wesley, stood patiently outside the stage door, waiting for Cordelia to change out of her costume and exit. It had been her first live performance and she'd been terribly nervous. Doyle had done all he could to keep her nervous energy from infecting him over the past several weeks—but, he had to admit, he had been a wreck. He felt as if he was the one going out on that stage instead of her.

Seeing the performance did little to unravel his nerves—in fact, watching her up there, had given him dry mouth.

By all accounts, the play had been a terribly directed, terribly acted adaptation of Henrik Ibsen's _A Doll's House_. And Cordelia was fairly terrible in it, forgetting a large quantity of her lines, and doing little in the way of playing it off. That wasn't surprising, since Doyle had helped her run lines on more than one occasion; being off-book wasn't exactly her strong suit. Faulty line-reading aside, Doyle decided Cordelia still had _something_ that made her stand out. Something that made it impossible for him to take his eyes off her no matter what else was going on. She may never win Oscars or Emmys or even a Community Theater Participation Award, but she was a star in his book, and he was damn proud that she could get up there and do a thing like that in front of a crowd… okay, maybe not a crowd, exactly, but there were a handful of others in the theater aside from he, Angel and Wesley.

"Was that really only two hours, because it felt… longer." Angel said, looking as if he'd have gladly chosen physical torture over the experience he just sat through.

"Okay, so… ya were so entranced by her performance that time stood still. Go with that." Doyle amended, giving Angel a warning look. "And you, Wesley, what've you got?"

Wesley shrugged haplessly. "Well… um… her projection was excellent."

Doyle shook his head unhappily. He supposed being in love with her made her performance sparkle in a way that it didn't for other people who were not in love with her. But, still… "One of you should tell 'er, it was an unforgettable performance, yeah? I'm sure that much is true."

"That one's mine." Angel volunteered, silently warning Wesley not to fight him on the point.

The door swung open and out stepped Cordelia wearing one of her brightest smiles. Doyle quickly handed her the bouquet of flowers he'd brought, making sure his grin was as wide and bright as her own. "There she is. The star of the show!"

Cordelia took the flowers and brought them to her nose appreciatively. "Look at me. Lead actress in a play, with a boyfriend who brings flowers to the stage door." Doyle could see she was genuinely touched by the gesture; now if his companions could only manage to lie through their teeth about the quality of her performance, he'd be going home with an extremely happy girlfriend this evening. And when she was happy, he was even happier.

"Did you like it?" She asked, directing the question to Doyle first and then letting her eyes carry toward the other two men who were intensely studying their shoes.

"Well, the play's a classic." Doyle enthused, moving to slip an arm around her waist and encourage her to start walking. "But, I doubt I'd have enjoyed it half as much without you as the leading lady. Couldn't rip my eyes away from ya, love."

He wasn't lying. Not really. The play probably would have bored him tears under even the best circumstances. Watching his girlfriend had been the only thing keeping his eyes open. So, yeah, all of his words were 100% true. She seemed pleased by his response, moving closer to him and maintaining her sunny disposition.

"Angel?" She asked, turning to the others as they all strolled together down the street. "Wesley? What did you guys think?"

"I thought… you really made the role your own." Wesley chirped enthusiastically.

"Yeah, and uh… it was memorable…" Angel tried and failed to make his words sound convincingly positive. "Unforgettable, actually."

"Okay, but was I any good?" Cordelia probed, still keeping her eyes on Angel specifically. Apparently, his response was the one she had the most reservations about, and it was no wonder since Angel was apparently finding it hard to be both truthful and kind.

"Uh… I mean…" Angel hedged uncomfortably.

Doyle noticed a big hubbub across the street and thought it was as good an excuse as any to take the spotlight off his friend, and spare his girlfriend's feelings. "Hey, look at that! Isn't it…?"

"Oliver Simon!" Cordelia enthused, following Doyle's line of vision. "One of the most important talent managers in this town. How on earth do you know who he is, Doyle?" She asked incredulously.

"Ah… I don't." Doyle confessed. "I was talkin' about the looker he's accompanying this evenin'."

Cordelia's eyes narrowed at Doyle, but then she turned back to see who he might have actually been talking about. She squealed in excitement as she too recognized the extremely attractive woman in question. "Oh my God! That's Rebecca Lowell, isn't it?!"

"Yeah, that's her alright." Doyle agreed. "She's a lot shorter in person."

"Who?" Wesley asked trying to see what all the fuss was about. He blinked his eyes at the strobing camera flashes, compliments of the paparazzi gathered nearby.

"Rebecca Lowell, the star of _On Your Own_. It was on the air for almost a decade. Don't tell me you've never heard of it." Cordelia explained with more than a hint of exasperation.

"Was it a good program?" Wesley directed the question to Doyle, who gave a non-committal shrug. He couldn't call it groundbreaking television programming, but out of all the uninteresting programs Harry had subjected him to during their marriage, _On Your Own_ had been one of the more entertaining offerings. That, and Rebecca Lowell was a real looker.

"I thought the first three seasons were solid." Doyle answered. "The show really jumped the shark around season four—there was this ridiculous pregnancy storyline that…" Doyle noticed that Wesley's eyes had glazed over in apparent disinterest, which was a sad state. If he was boring Wesley of all people, then it was a sure sign he should stop talking. "I, uh… heard it made a comeback toward the end of its run."

Angel had been silently observing the scene before them, when without warning he leapt into the middle of the street, shoving Rebecca Lowell to safety and being hit by the car that had been headed right toward her.

"Oh, wow." Cordelia breathed in amazement. "Angel just saved Rebecca Lowell's life. I think I'm finally getting my big break!"

* * *

"Ugh, Doyle! You were standing in front of me!" Cordelia's shrill voice seemed to vibrate throughout the entire office. Doyle felt it land specifically in that one vein in his forehead that seemed to be calibrated to her pitch.

Cordelia was leaning over her desk frowning down at the newspaper spread wide open in front of her. Wesley was a braver man than Doyle, slinking up beside her and taking a peek at the image that had caught her eye. "I don't see Doyle in that photograph." He observed, leaning down to take a closer look.

"Right there." She said, tapping on the inky page in frustration. "That's his elbow. See?"

Doyle slowly pulled himself off the couch and cautiously made his way around the desk to witness his apparent fifteen minutes of fame. He followed the edge of her index finger and saw something that could very well be the elbow of his favorite leather jacket; granted, it was mostly just a dark greyish blob.

"Oh." Wesley said, relatively unimpressed. "I suppose that is… a very lovely shot of Doyle's elbow. Yes."

"And if Doyle wasn't standing there, that could've been _my_ elbow!" She moaned. "You should really get used to standing _behind_ me, Doyle. That way, when I become famous and the paparazzi are trying to get my picture, they won't have a tragically dressed Irishman in the way."

That brought a smile to Doyle's lips. She didn't think twice about having him on her arm in the eventuality that she struck it big in the stardom department. What a change from a few months ago when she'd barely wanted him on her arm to go to the coffee shop. Standing behind her for years to come sounded like something Doyle very much wanted to do, regardless of the scenario. "Y'know how much I enjoy standing behind ya, Princess. This won't happen again." He agreed, giving her an affectionate kiss on the cheek and then going back to his former spot, lounging on the couch.

Cordelia and Wesley were still talking in the background, which is why Doyle put in his imaginary earplugs—maybe, he'd gotten a little too good at doing that. One of these days they'd be saying something he actually needed to hear and he would be none the wiser. Then again, this was a conversation between Cordelia and Wesley—the two of them bickered far more than Doyle and Cordelia ever had, only without all the underlying sexual tension to make it interesting. Instead, they fought like siblings and it could be incredibly tedious to listen to. The important thing was Doyle always gave Cordelia undivided attention when she was directly addressing him. With Wesley it was a 50/50 split.

Without the distraction of listening to the actual conversation, Doyle was the first to notice they had company. He stood up quickly, stepping forward to greet the striking woman who had just entered their front door, with two men built like Arnold Schwarzenegger occupying the doorway behind her.

"Ms. Lowell… welcome to Angel Investigations." He said, flashing her his most charming smile, dimples and all. "Can we help ya?"

"Coffee?! Tea?!" Cordelia squeaked from behind Doyle as she scrambled to come to his side. "Anything, really... our _intern_ can fetch whatever you'd like." She gestured behind her toward Wesley who stood behind the desk wearing a put upon expression.

"I'm fine." Rebecca assured them, smiling kindly at both individuals who were clearly star struck by her presence. Although, Doyle liked to think he was keeping it a little more inconspicuous than Cordelia was. "I was hoping I could speak to Angel. Is he in?"

Angel had come to his office doorway silently, as he did so often. "Why don't you step into my office, Ms. Lowell?"

The smile she gave Angel seemed considerably more genuine than the one she'd flashed at the non-vampires in the room. She turned back toward the two hulks standing just outside the door of the front office, and held her hands up in the universal sign for "halt."

"Stay." She ordered, just in case they weren't up to speed on their sign language. She then turned back toward Angel and proceeded into his office. The moment she was through the door Angel gave Cordelia a warning look, which clearly translated to the same thing Rebecca had just told her bodyguards. He then shut the door behind him with a click of finality.

Once again Doyle sunk back onto the small couch, putting his legs up on the coffee table in front of him. Wesley occupied himself by leaning back over the newspaper on Cordelia's desk, flipping to a different section not featuring Doyle's blurry elbow. Like a moth to a flame, Cordelia's ear was pressed conspicuously against Angel's closed door, picking up bits and pieces of the conversation unfolding within and feeding it to her disinterested officemates.

Cordelia's sudden gasp brought Doyle's eyes to her in amused curiosity. Wesley too raised his head, looking much more disapproving of her obvious show of eavesdropping.

"She has a stalker!" Cordelia whispered loudly, placing a worried hand over her mouth. "She's been getting threatening letters written in blood… Angel said it's not blood. Guess we know how he figured that out. _Ew_ , by the way."

Doyle chuckled to himself as he watched her stay glued to the door. He'd never seen her take such an interest in a case before. It would be refreshing if it wasn't so transparent.

"Cordelia, don't you think—?" Wesley tried to encourage her away from the door, but she waved him off dismissively.

"No police. She doesn't want this ending up in the tabloids." Cordelia continued in her thunderous whisper. "Angel's giving her the info on the car. And he's saying..." She stood up straight and screeched. "Are you insane?!"

She spun away from the door faking a sneeze, probably in an attempt to avoid the dirty glare she was getting from Angel within. She stomped away from the door and stood over Doyle, hands on hips, eyes blazing. "He just told her he can't take the case! You need to go in there and change his mind." She ordered, gesturing wildly to the closed door behind her.

Doyle arched a puzzled brow up at her. "Why me?" He wondered. "What makes ya think I can change his mind?"

"Well, for starters, if he doesn't take the case, you're the one who's never going to hear the end of it." She said facetiously. "Also, because he usually listens to you, Doyle. You're like the Angel-whisperer. So, go forth and whisper! Or shout if you have to." She dramatically shooed him toward the door of Angel's office, but he didn't actually move from his place on the couch, instead patting the seat beside him on the couch in invitation. Her mood darkened and she didn't budge.

"He doesn't _always_ listen to me, y'know." Doyle reasoned, gazing up at her. "I told him not to hire Wesley."

Wesley looked offended for a moment before he realized Doyle was merely making a joke at his expense, which Doyle made clear by flashing him a playfully guilty smirk. Doyle then turned back to the ferocious brunette towering over him.

"C'mere, darlin'." He said soothingly, reaching out for her hand. "I'll talk to Angel later, yeah? After the potential client leaves. But, I make no promises about being able to change his mind."

She slumped down on the couch beside Doyle and pouted in the direction of Angel's closed office door. "Why does he always have to be such a party pooper?"

"Oh, I dunno, just one of those skills he's been honing for the better part of a century, I guess."

* * *

"Oh, yeah. Right there. That's the spot." Cordelia threw her head back and moaned her approval as Doyle's thumbs kneaded the arch of her foot. "You are _so_ good at this."

"I do have my hidden talents." Doyle acknowledged, keeping his focus on the task at hand, which was massaging the feet currently placed in his lap.

They'd been cuddled up on her couch for most of the evening, but unfortunately the majority of it had consisted of Cordelia whining about Angel's decision not to take the Lowell case. Not to mention, whining about the fact that Doyle hadn't tried hard enough to change his boss' mind. Doyle had tried just about everything to steer the conversation into any other territory, but they kept falling right back to the same pit of despair every time. Now he had moved onto diversionary tactics, which seemed to be working for the past five minutes or so.

"I have to say, this talent is very high on my list of favorites. Much better than your higher-than-average-alcohol tolerance and inability to keep money in your wallet."

"I'll take that as the compliment it is." He said, giving her a cockeyed grin and moving his fingers along the ball of her foot. "Although, in my family, a higher-than-average alcohol tolerance is a talent worth bragging about."

"Yeah? Well, in my family it isn't, but I'm pretty sure my mom could drink any member of your family under the table, assuming she didn't swallow a bottle of Xanax with it." She'd made the comment so offhandedly it took him by surprise.

That was the first time she'd so much as mentioned her mother. Her father was brought up far more often, usually when she was talking about something she used to own before he'd lost all their money. Doyle wanted to ask more questions about her mom, but Cordelia seemed distracted, as if talking about her mother had been completely accidental. There was also the fact that this was a somewhat dangerous topic for him to have her expand on, considering his own tendencies to over-indulge. His drinking, like his gambling—before the Angel-abduction debacle—was an issue he hoped to _not_ make an issue with her. It had been an issue for Harry. One of the main issues, unfortunately. Occasional ribbing aside, Cordelia hadn't indicated she had a real problem with his drinking, but he suspected that wasn't actually the case. Still, he'd rather talk about Cordelia's past than hear her complain about Angel's present.

"Ya wanna talk about it?" Doyle asked cautiously.

"Why would I want to talk about that?" She retorted, putting an end to that line of discussion rather bluntly. Her segue back into the other hot topic of the evening left something to be desired. "So, what's Angel doing with his night off? Let me guess… Sitting in the dark, reading a book he's read a hundred times before. Just like he does all those other nights when we don't have a case. Yawn."

Doyle sighed heavily, placing down the foot he'd been massaging and picking up the other one to begin anew. "Or, patrolling. That's also a thing he does on nights when we don't have a case."

"Yeah, but tonight we _could_ have a case. Rebecca Lowell's case!" The whine was back, as she threw her hands up in the air in dramatic fashion. "I mean, _God_ , Doyle. She could be my first big Hollywood connection… and Angel's ruining it by not helping her. What's wrong? Is he afraid I'm gonna hit it big and quit my job? Because if I do, I promise I'll give him proper notice and find an adequate replacement. I'm not unreasonable, y'know?!"

"It's not that, Cordy. It's…" Doyle tried to think of the best way to explain Angel's hesitations, leaving out the part where he was, in fact, out this very moment keeping tabs on Rebecca Lowell. Angel didn't want Rebecca or Cordelia or anyone else to know that fact. And Doyle really couldn't betray that confidence, not even to get a smile out of his girlfriend. "He likes her." Doyle said simply, raising his green eyes to Cordelia's dark Hazel ones. "He's afraid of getting too close."

"Is that what he told you?" She questioned, drilling her eyes into his searchingly.

"He didn't have to tell me, Princess." Doyle explained, continuing to apply rhythmic pressure against the arch of her foot. "It's pretty obvious."

"So, you're saying it's a curse thing?" She asked with a skeptical arch of her brow. "Because last time I checked, taking a case didn't mean sleeping with the client. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's frowned upon in our line of work."

"It's not just about the curse…" Doyle hedged.

"Then, you've lost me again." She complained, her deep frown returning only to be replaced with a figurative light bulb going on over her head. "Okay, so he doesn't want to get close to Rebecca. Then, why doesn't he have you take the case instead? On behalf of the entire agency. We're a team after all, and you do a lot of the investigative work for Angel. He can't possibly object to that—not when we're as desperate for business as we are."

Doyle had to admire her persistence, even if it was starting to slowly drive him out of his mind. "Ah… I'm not so sure Ms. Lowell would go for that." He pointed out, finally ceasing with the foot massage that had gotten him nowhere in terms of distraction techniques. "Pretty sure she's got a thing for tall, dark and abstinent. It's _Angel_ she was looking to hire, not the team."

"Ugh! Why does my life always have to be so complicated?!" She threw her head back against the arm of the couch and folded her arms tightly across her chest. The air of frustration floated around her like a palpable bubble and Doyle figured he was stuck on the other side of it. Even so, he reached out and pulled her into a sitting position and then coaxed her forward until she was halfway on his lap. She didn't fight him, but her forlorn expression hung heavy.

"Listen to me, Princess. Ya don't need some big shot celebrity's help to become a success. You're a force to be reckoned with all on your own. I believe in ya." He said encouragingly, trying to get her to look at him instead of at the carpet.

She rolled her eyes lightly and gave a sardonic laugh. "You have no idea how Hollywood works, Doyle. Connections are everything. I mean, some people have real talent, _I guess_. But, most of them just know the right people."

"Not sure why you'd even wanna be in a business like that." He remarked.

"Fame. Fortune. Everyone wants in." She reminded him. "Someone like Rebecca—a connection of that caliber—can really open doors for someone like me."

"Well, I don't know about all that, but I do know ya have someone right here lookin' to make a connection…" He lowered his voice to the sensual growl that usually had a positive effect on her and nuzzled his mouth against the side of her neck.

That made her genuinely laugh, which was at least a positive outcome, if not the one he'd been hoping for. "It's too bad you don't work in casting." She joked, but there was an audible edge of regret.

He kept kissing the side of her neck, running his hands along her back. But a few moments later he felt her wriggle free of his embrace and was confronted with the downward tilt of her mouth. He knew he wasn't likely to be changing her mood tonight. She was in an unshakeable funk, and there was nothing he could do but wait it out.

"I think I'm just gonna go to bed." She said somberly, pushing herself up off the couch and padding away towards the bathroom to wash up.

Doyle was left sitting alone on the couch wondering what he should do next. In silent answer, the TV flipped on and the remote slowly floated across the room and plopped down in his lap.

"Thanks, Dennis, man. I'll stick around and watch the game with ya." Doyle said to the empty air, lifting his feet up onto the coffee table and settling deeper into the couch cushions. "And if ya can wrangle me up some salty snacks, there might be some new comic books in it for ya."


	30. Eternity, Pt 2

**"Eternity," Part II**

"He took the case?!"

Wesley looked up at the animated brunette wearing a stunned expression. He was seated behind her desk, doing the work she had refused to do the previous day when she launched a mini-strike against Angel. Wesley had been surprised when Angel called only moments earlier to inform them all that he had, in fact, taken the case after all and was still currently at Ms. Lowell's place of residence, where he had spent the previous night after thwarting a second attempt on her life. Judging by Doyle's non-reaction, he already knew this bit of information—a fact not lost on his none-too-pleased girlfriend.

Cordelia spun around to level the unassuming Irishman behind her with a withering stare. "You knew, didn't you?! And you didn't tell me!"

Doyle held up both his hands in surrender and stepped away from her, looking like he would've liked to blend into the walls if he could. "I'm pleading the fifth on that one, darlin'."

She rolled her eyes at that response, turning her intense eyes back in Wesley's direction. "So, let me get this straight, he called you from her house? As in, he spent the night with the fantasy of millions. All alone. Getting _close_."

"I'm sure he didn't get as close as all that." Doyle mumbled from behind Cordelia catching her meaning.

Wesley nodded in agreement, forming a unified front with Doyle, something he found himself doing more and more on a regular basis. It did seem that at some point in recent history, they'd stopped being antagonists and started being teammates. Wesley couldn't say for sure when it had happened, but it was truly a wonder considering where they'd started. "If it's the curse you're worried about, Cordelia, I wouldn't be."

"Hey, neither one of you were around the last time Angel went mental. I, on the other hand, was on the first wave of the cleanup crew." Cordelia said indignantly. "He knows perfect happiness, he goes evil. So, don't tell me not to worry."

Doyle stepped closer to her, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder in an effort to make sure she was listening and understanding. In moments such as this it was easy for Wesley to imagine the other man as a teacher and mentor. His gentle tone, combined with a surprising air of wisdom made for a rather convincing argument. "That's the reason ya shouldn't be worrying, Princess. Perfect happiness isn't as common as all that." He explained amiably. "Angel found it when he was with Buffy—the love of his unnaturally long life. Ya don't find a love like that all too often. Maybe once in a human lifetime, if you're lucky."

Cordelia stared back at Doyle, seemingly lost in a river of thought caused by his words. Something told Wesley that Doyle was speaking from personal experience, and Cordelia could certainly sense that as well. Perhaps, she was reconsidering her own notion of what perfect happiness was and whether or not it was something she'd yet achieved. Cordelia was significantly younger than Doyle, with much less life experience to draw from. He, on the other hand, had been married before. Therefore, maybe she was also considering whether or not she and Doyle were the kind of love Doyle had just spoken about, or if he was merely remembering what he'd had in the past. The bigger question was—which of those thoughts scared her more?

Wesley had his own assumptions on the matter—not that it was any of his business what his co-workers did with their personal lives. Cordelia and Doyle certainly had a demonstrable chemistry between them, but he'd never once heard either of them speak of love. Not publicly, in any case—he was blessedly ignorant of what they did on their own time. During working hours they seemed to bicker and tease each other quite regularly, when they weren't blatantly flirting. For them he supposed it was a type of foreplay; they'd push each other's buttons during the day and then gladly make up when night fell. In any case, it wasn't really all that fair of him to judge; he was an outsider looking in on something that still seemed to be a relatively new relationship. Maybe it was true love, maybe it wasn't. For now, whatever the label, it was clearly fueled by fireworks, and it was far more than Wesley had going for himself.

"Anyway…" Cordelia gave her cascading brown waves a flip, as if clearing her head of the daze that had set in. "I still think it'd be responsible of us to make sure Angel didn't chow down on our latest client." She adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder, leaving no mistake as to whom she was nominating for the job. "Seeing how I am the foremost Angelus authority between the three of us, I'm happy to volunteer."

Doyle was smirking at her as she turned on her heel and started toward the front door. "Hey, wait a sec, Princess. Don't ya think you should be taking some proper reinforcements?" He walked over to the desk where Wesley was seated, slid the top right drawer open and held up a sizable wooden cross. He waved it toward Cordelia in offering.

"Of course." She agreed huffily, crossing the room to yank the wooden cross out of Doyle's outstretched hand and shove it into her purse. "I should probably stop for some lattes as well, just in case he hasn't turned evil."

With that she flitted out the front door before any further delays could occur. Doyle was chuckling to himself in the wake of her leaving.

"If it's Angelus she's about to face, I doubt the cross will suffice." Wesley noted dryly, knowing full well that Doyle already knew as much.

Doyle settled himself on the front edge of the desk the way he often did when Cordelia was seated behind it. "You and I both know there's very little danger of that, yeah? Cordy was just looking for an excuse to get some face time with Ms. Hollywood Hotshot."

"She does seem rather single-minded about the Lowell case." Wesley observed.

"That's putting it mildly." Doyle remarked. After a moment Doyle's demeanor shifted and the gaze he directed toward Wesley was more doubting than it had been only moments earlier. "Ah… ya don't think I'm being too blasé about this whole Angelus thing, do ya? I mean, Rebecca is an attractive woman…"

Wesley looked up at Doyle, surprised by his sudden decline in confidence. "As a matter of fact, I think you were quite right the first time." Wesley assured him. "Perfect happiness is a rare thing, indeed. Some people never find it. And I very much doubt Angel will find it with an _actress_ , of all people."

A knowing smile spread across Doyle's face, and his eyes seemed to twinkle with an understanding that Wesley apparently did not have. "You'd be surprised, bud." He said simply, clearing up at least one of Wesley's questions about Cordelia and Doyle's relationship.

It was apparent that Doyle was very much a man in love.

* * *

Cordelia heard the knock at her door that meant Doyle was standing on the other side. She was still putting the finishing touches on her makeup, but thankfully, she had a roommate who was always ready and waiting to answer the door. "Dennis, can you get that, please?" She called into the empty air.

She heard the click of the bolt as Dennis heeded her request. "Thanks, Dennis, man." Doyle's jovial voice carried to her ears from the other room. "What's all this?" She thought she caught a bit of nervousness in his voice as he took in the scene she'd set up in the living room. She smiled to herself as she finished with her lipstick and took in her flawless appearance in the mirror in front of her. He wouldn't be so nervous in a few minutes.

Cordelia closed up her makeup case, smoothed out the sexy negligee she was wearing and made her way toward the living room where she found Doyle standing bewilderedly in the center of the room taking in the dim lighting and the dozens of candles she'd lighted. Dennis clicked on the stereo for her as she entered the room, which caused Doyle to spin around and have his eyes nearly bug out of his head when he saw what she was wearing. "Wow."

She stood batting her eyelashes at him, and twirled a piece of hair absently in her fingers, using her acting skills to play up the young, ingénue act, despite her uber-sexy attire. "You like?" She asked with an inviting smile.

"Do I…?" Doyle's expression told her she couldn't have asked a more absurd question. "Ya look…I said wow already, yeah?"

"I think you might be speechless." She laughed. "Speechless is good."

He moved toward her and slid his hands over her hips, admiring the silky feel of the negligee over her soft curves. "I, uh… I've been calculatin' in my head and… to my knowledge this isn't an anniversary or anything. Unless…" He cleared his throat nervously. "Is there something I'm forgetting?"

"Relax, Doyle." She soothed, placing her hands over his and moving them lower until he was cupping her bottom. Then she slid her own hands up the front of his shirt and began to toy with the buttons she found there. "It's not a special occasion. I just felt like making tonight _extra-fun_ , that's all."

She watched as Doyle's expression changed to something a little less awe-struck and a lot more knowing. "I'm guessing this has a little something to do with our boss's whereabouts this evening, yeah?"

Cordelia feigned-ignorance. "Oh, you mean because instead of brooding alone in his cave tonight, Angel is helping further my career by escorting Rebecca Lowell to her big movie premiere? I don't know what that has to do with us." She wasn't doing a convincing job of playing it off, so she dropped the act for a moment. "It wouldn't have killed him to ask for extra tickets."

Doyle chuckled at her, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on her forehead. "Whatever the reason for your good mood, I'm not complainin'."

She resumed the coquettish smile from moments earlier and slid her hands up to land in the soft hair on the base of his head. "I'm sorry I was such a mood-killer last night. I know you were trying to make me feel better and I completely ignored it." She twirled her fingers through his hair lazily as she stared up into his beautiful pale-green eyes. She did enjoy staring into those eyes, always so emotive. "Do you really think I have what it takes to strike it big all on my own?"

"Y'know that I do." He answered sincerely. She felt the butterflies in her stomach go wild. Having him believe in her mattered more than she wanted to admit. And she could see that he really meant it; he had been believing in her since he'd met her.

As she stared up at his lips, just a few inches out of reach, but easy to access on tiptoes, she thought of the things he'd told her earlier in the day. Perfect happiness was rare. Something you were lucky to find once in a lifetime, much less twice. She wouldn't dare ask if he'd found perfect happiness with Harriet, only because she suspected she already knew that answer. But, was he lucky enough to find it twice? She wanted to think so, because although she didn't have any great loves in her past, she never felt as happy and complete as she did when she was in Doyle's arms. He made her feel loved, without ever having to say the words. And she didn't want to be feeling those things alone. She wanted that for him, too. She wanted to be able to make him feel that… even if it still terrified her to admit she'd fallen that completely.

She saw the questions in his eyes as he looked down at her. It always amazed her how he could react to things she'd never said aloud. Like now, when he clearly already knew she was thinking some pretty deep thoughts. He usually didn't push her to say or do things she wasn't ready for; something, for which, she was eternally grateful. Since he never pushed, she found herself pushing instead. "Doyle…?"

"What's on your mind, Princess?" He asked gently, increasing the pressure of his arms around her.

"Do you think you could have that whole perfect happiness thing with me?" The sentence tumbled from her lips, and the moment it was out she wished she could reel it back in. It was a dangerous question. The kind of question she wouldn't have wanted to answer if he had asked it of her.

But, Doyle wasn't her. And he didn't seem intimidated by the question. Quite the opposite, in fact. She watched his eyes fill with warmth and the smile never wavered from his face. "I'd say it's a good thing I'm not cursed by gypsies." He replied softly. "I'm not a big fan of forbidden love. I prefer the kind ya get to experience up close and personal-like."

She felt the slight sting of tears at the back of her eyes. His words were beautiful, and she didn't doubt they were true. "Like this?" She asked in a thick voice. He'd never said the L-word out loud, although she always felt like he said it to her in other, nonverbal, ways. "Is that what this is?"

She could tell he thought her reaction was endearing. "That's what it is for me, darlin'…. I said love and I meant it." He lifted one of his hands to cup her cheek and kept his eyes pinned to hers as he used his thumb to caress her soft skin. "I love you, Cordy."

She inhaled sharply at the words, feeling them as if they were a physical sensation. And they pretty much were, thanks to the resulting thump of her heart against her chest.

"No one's ever said that to me." She admitted. Not even her parents had said it, to her recollection. Her father thought buying her a Palomino was a better sign of love than actually saying it, which is probably why she'd usually dated men who could buy her affections. It was what she knew.

But hearing it was so much better. Especially when she could look into Doyle's eyes and see that he meant it. And if she reached up and kissed him, she knew she would feel it, too. In fact, she knew he would spend the rest of the night enveloping her in that love until it filled all her senses. She was already gravitating to his lips when she heard him whisper it again, for good measure. "I love you."

Her lips were on his, as if wanting to taste his words. She kissed him eagerly, pulling his face down toward her and demanding that he kiss her back. And that's exactly what he did, lifting her against him and returning her kisses just as feverishly.

She took his love hungrily and willingly gave him perfect happiness in return.


	31. Eternity, Pt 3

**"Eternity," Part III**

"Where's Cordelia this morning?"

Doyle looked up from his newspaper as Angel entered the office. He didn't bother taking his legs down from the edge of Cordelia's desk, where they were stretched out and crossed at the ankles. "You'll be happy to know she's living a personal dream of hers, all thanks to you. Which means she probably won't be bugging ya for a raise for at least a solid month."

Angel furrowed his brow in question to the vague response from Doyle. He looked over at Wesley who was sitting behind Cordelia's desk, tapping away on the computer keys. He gave a vague shrug indicating he had no further information on the matter.

"She got a call this morning from, Rebecca Lowell. Wanted to take her shopping or some such. Ya shoulda heard the racket she made after she hung up the phone. My ear's still ringing." Doyle admitted, jiggling a finger in his left ear to illustrate the point. He wasn't joking about the ringing, but he was grinning ear to ear, remembering how insanely happy Cordelia had been after receiving the invitation.

"Is that what happened there?" Angel asked with reserved amusement, noting the large coffee stain that was visible on the front of Doyle's shirt.

Doyle snorted in reply. Cordelia's initial shriek of excitement had caused his hand to slip, and he didn't have a wide variety of wardrobe to choose from at her apartment. He went with the coffee stain rather than the shirt he'd worn the previous day, hoping it would just blend in as part of the design. Apparently it did no such thing. "Small price to pay. Really I oughtta thank ya for taking the case, 'cause Cordelia was not only happy this morning. She was also extremely happy last night." Doyle waggled his eyebrows, leaving no question as to what her happiness had meant in terms of _his_ happiness.

Angel held up a hand to stop Doyle right there, and closed his eyes to block out any other facial expressions that may insinuate things he didn't wish to know. "I'm glad Cordelia's happy." He said. "But, maybe we should discuss the actual case now."

"Yes, let's." Wesley eagerly agreed from behind the desk, also uninterested to know any further details about Cordelia and Doyle's sex life. "You said there was another attack last night?"

"That's right." Angel replied. "Rebecca never stays at her premieres. She always ducks out the back, after doing the red carpet thing. Someone knew that was going to happen, and he was waiting."

"What'd he do?" Doyle asked, finally pulling his feet down off the desk and sitting up straight at attention.

"He shot me." Angel responded without emotion.

"She saw you get shot." Wesley noted with surprise.

"She already knows what I am." Angel admitted, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning thoughtfully in the doorway. "She figured that out the other night. In any case, I didn't really get shot."

Doyle and Wesley exchanged an extremely confused glance at Angel's last statement.

"So, the guy was a lousy shot." Doyle surmised. "Lucky for you—I know how much ya hate getting bullet holes in your clothes."

"He used blanks." Angel clarified. "Seems like it was all for show."

"A publicity hoax, then?" Wesley said disappointedly. "Do you suspect Ms. Lowell is in on it or it's someone working on her behalf?"

"I don't think she knows." Angel confirmed. "And I'm not looking forward to telling her. She has few enough people she can trust as it is. This is really going to sting."

"It was that Oliver guy, yeah? I'd better tell Cordy she should rethink having Rebecca recommend her to a guy like that—endangering his client's life for what? A few headlines. That's just not right."

"No, it's not." Angel agreed. "But I guess it means case closed for us." He tossed a file he'd been holding down on Wesley's desk and sauntered back into his office.

Doyle frowned to himself, not only feeling bad for the client, but also feeling bad for his girlfriend who was still intent on finding her way into that ugly business. As much as he wanted her to be successful, he didn't think he could wish that kind of success on his worst enemy, much less someone he loved.

Wesley picked up the discarded file folder Angel had left on the edge of the desk, and brought it over to the filing cabinet. After a moment he sighed in frustration, turning to Doyle with a bewildered expression.

"You don't happen to know where I should file the Lowell case, do you?"

Doyle scrunched his face up in thought, trying to think the way Cordelia did when she was filing. "Ah… I'd put it under A." He decided.

"A?" Wesley asked skeptically. "Why on Earth would it go under A?"

"'Cause she's an actress."

* * *

Cordelia paced nervously until she heard the knock at her door, at which point she swung the door open wildly. A bemused Doyle stood on the other side, holding up the cell phone she'd so recently bought him.

"I'm not sure what that message ya left was trying to say exactly. Please tell me it was just a misguided attempt to get creative with the booty calls? Gotta say, I'm a fan of the less panic-inducing ones, like last night, for instance."

She hurried him inside the door, still pacing madly, which probably already told him that tonight's call was nothing of the booty call variety. She had left a fairly vague message on his voicemail, cursing him for not picking up in the first place. She had also tried the office and gotten no response, and had even tried Angel's cell phone directly, but he, of course, didn't have it turned on. She couldn't exactly drive over to the office by herself, not with what she suspected was happening.

"I think I made a big mistake!" She yelped.

Doyle held up his hands, trying to calm her a bit. "You were shopping with Rebecca, yeah? Is this one of those buyer's remorse type of things?"

"God, no. I will never ever regret buying that leather miniskirt." She said indignantly. "It makes my butt look amazing! I don't care how long it takes to pay off."

"Could ya… just focus for a minute, Cordy?" Doyle pleaded, although based on the look she'd seen cross his face, she suspected he did want to see that new miniskirt at some point. "If I should be freakin' out here, I really need to know why."

"Okay, okay." She said, swallowing away the lump in her throat. She didn't like admitting she'd been as easily as manipulated as she now realized she had. She could only blame it on the fact that Rebecca was a really good actress and Cordelia was all too eager to stay on the woman's good side. "All day, Rebecca was real gabby. Asking lots of questions about Angel—she knows he's a vampire, y'know."

"Angel mentioned something about that." Doyle agreed. "Understandable she'd be curious."

"She was more than just curious. I mean, at first the questions made sense… where does Angel hail from, what's his favorite color, what kind of after-shave does he wear? All the usual someone's-gotta-crush kinda questions. The part that gets a little less crush-like is when she asked about the exact specific details on how someone could make themselves into a vampire."

"Ah…" Doyle's face did one of those things where about five different emotions flickered across it all at the same time. "Ya don't really think—?"

"What? That she'd try to seduce Angel into an exchange of bodily fluids in order to make herself eternally young and beautiful? I dunno, sounds a lot easier than going under the knife. So, yeah, I really _do_ think."

"Well… that's not good." Doyle admitted, his face turning a lighter shade of pale.

"I know you don't think there'd be any perfect happiness for Angel in this scenario, but we still have to stop her." Cordelia worried. "I mean, there's always a chance Angel likes her a lot more than you think he does…"

"I hate to agree with ya on that point, but I think we'd better get ourselves to the office right about now. Better call Wesley, too, just in case. And tell him he can bring a stake this time."

* * *

Doyle thought he heard screaming even before he opened the front door to the office, but once inside the screaming was gone, replaced only by the sound of the elevator in Angel's office ascending. He kept Cordelia behind him as he raced through the outer office and into Angel's office. The elevator was there alright, but it had gone up too high, missing the exit, and a small female body was trying to squeeze her way out of the thin gap left between the elevator floor and the top of the doorframe. Doyle rushed to her assistance, and as soon as he touched her, she screamed for real.

"It's okay, Ms. Lowell." Doyle said, knowing full well that things were not okay if she was this hysterical.

"Oh, thank God." She gasped, sliding to the floor beside Doyle, where he was forced to keep an arm around her to steady her small frame. "You have to help me. He's trying to kill me!"

Her words struck fear in Doyle's heart, and rage in the heart of his companion. "You slut!" Cordelia shouted in the other woman's face. "You did it with him. Didn't you?!"

"Cordelia." Doyle warned, giving her a pleading look. He doubted it was that simple. Part of him even hoped it was all a big charade—although the bloody gash on Rebecca's neck told him otherwise. Angel wouldn't take a charade quite that far.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Rebecca contended, lifting one of her hands to feel the blood oozing from the side of her neck. She looked horrified as she brought her fingers in front of her face and saw the bright red blood that lingered there. "All we did was have a drink together."

"Was that before or after you got all groiny with my boss and turned him evil?!" Cordelia accused.

"I didn't." Rebecca tried again, this time appealing to Doyle. "I swear."

Doyle nodded at her, trying to appear sympathetic. "I believe ya, okay? But, there musta been somethin' aside from the drink." Doyle studied her fearful expression for a moment and then jumped to the only logical conclusion he could think of—which was, in fact, void of all logic. "Ya spiked it, yeah? What did ya use?"

"Um…" Rebecca looked nervously back over at Cordelia who was about ten seconds away from foaming at the mouth. "Doximall. It's a…"

"Tranquilizer, yeah. I'm familiar." Doyle said, drawing his brows together with concern. "It induces bliss. That right?"

Rebecca nodded as Cordelia's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. "Bliss?! As in sheer contentment. _Perfect happiness?!_ Oh God, this is bad, Doyle. Like, let's-charter-a-plane-and-get-the-hell-out-of-L.A. bad!"

"It's synthetic. Not true happiness." Doyle thought out loud, stepping away from Rebecca and putting a comforting hand on the arm of his panicking girlfriend instead. "I doubt a thing like that could trigger the curse—I'm thinking it's nothing but an illusion. Should wear off once that drug's outta his system."

"You _think_ it _should_?!" Cordelia squawked. "What if you're wrong? And, even if you're right, do you know how much damage Angelus can do in the span of one night?!"

"Well, _he_ doesn't know he only has one night." Doyle reasoned. "I'm hoping he'll spend it on the planning phase of his murder and mayhem rather than the actual murder and mayhem."

Cordelia didn't look convinced. "We need to get out of here _now-ish_." She said, reaching out for his hand and starting to pull him toward the exit. "If he sees us, there won't be any planning involved. He _will_ skip right ahead to the torture… you, especially, Doyle."

"Why me especially?" He croaked, taken aback by the thought that Angelus would target him more than the others.

"Because Angel loves you the most." She said simply. "And Angelus _really_ likes to hurt the people who make Angel feel that way."

Doyle swallowed audibly and felt his knees go weak. "That's more than a little unsettling." He admitted. "Let's make with the disappearing act, yeah?"

They'd barely taken two steps when they were plunged into darkness. Doyle felt Rebecca crash into him from behind, and then grip onto the back of his shirt. Cordelia was still holding his hand, and she squeezed it tightly as she whispered. "He cut the power." Doyle heard something resembling a frightened whimper emanate from her as she realized what that meant. "He's outside."

"Not anymore." Doyle confessed, sensing the movement from the outer door, and seeing the foreboding dark shape that made it's way through the dim outer office. By the time the shape filled the doorway, their eyes had adjusted enough to see the frightening image of his vampire face. Doyle didn't have to wonder if he could tell the difference between Angel and Angelus. There was no mistaking the creature before him for his best friend. This was not Angel.

And that's why they were all in grave danger.


	32. Eternity, Pt 4

**"Eternity," Part IV**

"You guys weren't planning on leaving, were you?" Angelus asked malevolently, placing each of his hands on the side of the doorway—leaving no way to maneuver around him. "To be honest, I was getting pretty bored of Rebecca here. I'd rather just eat her and hang out with you guys instead. You're my friends, after all."

Rebecca had backed away into the farthest corner of the room at the sound of Angelus' threat—technically, she'd probably been marginally safer standing behind Doyle. At least, Angelus would have had to go through Doyle to get to her, while now he could easily dart directly in her direction. But, Doyle couldn't be too concerned about the non-safety of the woman who had caused this to happen—It wasn't a question of who Angelus would hurt; merely a question of what order he would choose to hurt them. Doyle had found his throat was incredibly dry at the moment and, anyway, speaking wasn't something he felt would be terribly wise under the circumstances. Taunting someone who already wanted to torture you mercilessly never seemed like a good strategy. Although, Cordelia apparently felt differently on that point. " I like my friends a little less homicidal, thanks."

"Oh, Cordelia..." Angelus sighed mockingly. "That mouth of yours... always running. I don't know why Doyle puts up with it... oh, wait, sure I do. Same reason he'll never tell you what a terrible actress you are. He wants to keep getting laid." Doyle was still holding Cordelia's hand, so he could feel the reflexive flinch that went through her body. Or maybe it was him that flinched. The sad part was that Angelus was only getting started. His voice was laced with cruelty as he focused his evil-eyes squarely on Doyle. "How long had it been, Doyle? You know, I'll bet Cordelia's legs are the first ones that spread for you since your marriage fell apart. Or, at least, the first ones you didn't have to pay..."

"That's enough!" Doyle roared in response, not entirely sure where his voice had come from. He supposed it was the adrenaline that came along with the sudden burst of anger. By now Doyle had dropped Cordelia's hand, unable to keep touching her while these awful things were being said about him and them. Although, he suspected that was unwise, as it would only add fuel to Angelus' fire—it was evidence that he'd struck the right nerve, and now he'd continue striking it until it snapped entirely.

Angelus' wicked grin seemed to grow wider in the dim light. "Always walking on eggshells, isn't that right?" He taunted, dropping his arms so he could pace within in the doorway. "Because you'll probably never find another woman who would willingly go for the demon-type. Lucky for you, Cordelia's just desperate enough to be loved that she's willing to overlook your very many flaws, that one included."

"That's not a flaw!" Cordelia responded defiantly, completely surprising Doyle by ignoring the dig at her expense and defending him instead. "There's nothing wrong with being a demon. It's being evil that's the revolting part." Doyle had been observing her through his peripheral vision, and was impressed to see very little change in her body language, despite the verbal blows directed at her. He was struggling, on the other hand. Trying to formulate a plan, but each word from Angelus' mouth seemed to cut deeper than the ones that had come previously.

"I guess you find me revolting then." Angelus feigned a wounded reaction to her insult, placing his hands over his heart. "Put back the soul, though… Why don't you tell Doyle just how attracted to me you are—how you were always trying to get my attention before I started dating Buffy. That must've stung, huh? That I chose her over you. And now when you watch me work out, shirtless, sweaty... I can smell your desire clear across the room. A silent invitation..."

"That's not true!" She shouted, her eyes darting from Angelus to Doyle. "He is _so_ not invited." Doyle kept his eyes firmly planted on the vampire in front of him. Although, the words were still cutting, he knew this was all a diversionary tactic, meant to put them off-balance. Doyle knew Angelus would soon tire of the verbal torture, and get physical at some point, and he would probably do so without warning. Doyle had to stay on alert no matter what he heard. There was no time to be offended, or jealous or insecure—not, if he wanted them both to survive.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, no lying, Cordelia. That's not your way." Angelus chastised mockingly. "Doyle can find out for himself—he has demon senses, too."

She stepped back a step after that, giving away a piece of her defiant stand. Doyle remained steadfast only because he felt paralyzed; body locked in place, eyes unwavering. He had no witty retorts, but he did have one card up his sleeve—actually, two cards that needed to be used together. If he could keep Angelus in non-murder mode for long enough, then maybe, just maybe, they would all live to see tomorrow.

"You'd better start minding your manners, bud." Doyle baited. "Or you'll learn a little more 'bout what Brachens can really do."

"Oooh, I'm so scared." Angelus called his bluff. "You don't even know what Brachens can do, Doyle, because you _hate_ them, almost as much as you hate yourself. You're just a pathetic, little half-breed. And you know what's even more pathetic? All that fuss you made. _Oh, Cordelia, will reject me if she knew._ " Angelus finally stepped out of the doorframe, inching menacingly toward the place where Cordelia and Doyle stood in the center of the room. "Excuses. We both know she _will_ reject you eventually. It's only a matter of time before she gets tired of the worship and sees you for the pitiful, alcoholic, degenerate-gambler you are."

Doyle could see his chance slowly coming to fruition. Angelus' words barely registered anymore, now that he'd moved out of the doorway and was stalking his prey, preparing for the physical attack. Doyle had sidestepped the few inches necessary for him to stand mostly in front of Cordelia.

"Since we're such good pals, I'll do you a favor." Angelus threatened, now in much closer proximity. "I'll spare you the rejection... by ripping your throat out." He then held up a finger, almost as an afterthought. "But, only after I make you watch while I have Cordelia for myself." He brought his hand up to his mouth as he faux-whispered. "Don't worry, she'll probably enjoy it."

"I hope you know, you've walked right into our trap!" Cordelia bluffed from behind Doyle. He felt her move closer to his back, keeping him in place as her shield. "I've spent every day since you hired me preparing for this exact moment. Crosses, stakes, holy water... this place is a mine field for vampires!"

Instead of answering her, Angelus moved inhumanly fast so that he had clear access to Cordelia. He then punched her in the jaw, knocking her out cold. Doyle didn't even have time to catch her as she crumbled to the floor at his feet.

"I'm thinking we can just start with her unconscious and wake her up for round two. There's only so much of that mindless yammering I can take." Angelus yanked Doyle forward by the shirt collar, eying him pityingly. "Cat got your tongue now, Doyle? No witty comebacks for your best friend in the world?" He shook his head in disgust. "I warned you this would happen. You _care_ about me, that's why you're impotent. And I'm going to make it so your girlfriend suffers for your complete inability to do anything at all."

"That's not why I've been so quiet." Doyle gritted his reply through clenched teeth. "I've just been waiting, yeah?"

"Waiting for what?" Angelus scoffed.

"Reinforcements." Wesley announced from the doorway, training a crossbow on Angelus.

Angelus was unimpressed, to say the least. He could have easily used Doyle as a shield, but instead he tossed him aside lazily and took a menacing step in Wesley's direction. Doyle slumped to the floor beside Cordelia, checking to see that her jaw wasn't broken by Angelus' cheap shot. It wasn't, but she'd have a pretty nasty bruise.

"I'm not afraid to shoot." Wesley insisted, his trigger finger twitching in warning.

"We both know that's not true." Angelus retorted, sounding a little more bored than he had when taunting Doyle and Cordelia. "You're afraid of everything, Wesley. Most of all, you're afraid of being inferior... well, guess what, nothing to be afraid of there. You are what you are."

Wesley shot, but Angelus easily caught the bolt in mid-air and broke it in his hand. He grinned madly at Wesley as he dropped the broken remnants at his feet. "Look at that—someone around here does have the balls to try and kill me. Too bad it's only _you_." Angelus said dismissively. "You can stay or go. Truth is, I don't really care. And no one else does either. You simply... don't matter."

As Wesley presented himself as a distraction, Doyle rifled through Cordelia's purse, hoping that he would find the item he'd made her take with her the previous morning. Please let her be one of those women who threw things in her purse and never took them out. As his hand wrapped around the large wooden cross, he breathed a sigh of relief. It might not be an Ace up his sleeve, but it put him back in the game. He slid the cross behind his back, and stood up, moving off to the side. Cordelia's body remained unmoving in the center of the floor and Rebecca, whom he had nearly forgotten about, was still curled up in the corner, probably hoping that Doyle wasn't the only one who'd forgotten she was present.

Angelus whirled back around, having tired of Wesley. "Now, where was I...?" He asked no one in particular, sauntering back to where Cordelia lay on the floor. "Oh, right. About to rape your girlfriend while you do nothing to stop me. Let's get on with it, shall we? I have a lot of other people to kill tonight."

Doyle took a deep breath as Angelus stepped into the position Doyle had been waiting for. Then, he morphed into his demon form and lunged at Angelus with the cross in his outstretched hand. He made contact and the vampire's cheek began to sizzle, affording Doyle a slight upper hand that he wouldn't have gotten from his demon-strength alone. They stumbled over Cordelia's body—Doyle vaguely hoping they didn't cause her any further harm. But, his focus remained on propelling Angelus backwards until they both fell through the open elevator shaft, landing at the bottom with a sickening crunch.

* * *

When Doyle woke up, he knew right away that there was a lot wrong with him. Pain coursed through his body, which he could feel was bent in an unnatural position. If it weren't for the fact that he was still in his demon form, he probably wouldn't have woken up at all. In the very least, he surely wouldn't have ever been able to walk again.

"Doyle…?" Cordelia's voice permeated his bubble of pain, and he felt slight pressure on his shoulder. "Are you awake?" She sounded strange; more than just concerned, as if she was having trouble speaking.

He blinked his eyes open and saw her blurry face hovering above him. As she came into soft focus, he saw that her jaw was swollen and a deep bruise was already starting to appear. Of course, she was having trouble speaking. He moved to lift an arm to her face, but found it difficult to move any of his limbs.

"Your back is broken." She said stiffly. "But, you can… I mean, I read some things about Brachen demons on that demon database and it said—"

"Cordy." He grunted. It was hard for him to speak with his body contorted so unnaturally. "It'll all go back where it needs to… but I need ya to help it get there."

"Oh." She replied worriedly. "I don't want to hurt you."

"It all hurts." His breath was labored, along with his speech. "Ya can't possibly make it worse… Now roll me over and anything that's bent outta place…." He groaned in agony as she started to lift him, but he used the momentum to continue onto his belly. "…twist, pull, whatever ya need to do. Start with the shoulders, yeah?"

She obeyed his orders, starting with his shoulders and upper back—she started out timidly, but once she got a shoulder to pop back into place, it encouraged her to use more force with the rest of his spine. He felt the feeling rush back into his arms, and he was able to twist his lower-spine back into place with only mild assistance from her. Most of the pain subsided once everything was lined up properly, and he stood up and stretched his limbs completely, trying to shake out the final aches and pains. Once he morphed back into his human form, whatever pain he was left with was liable to be there for a while, so the less, the better.

He noticed that he was standing in Angel's apartment, only a few feet outside the elevator shaft where he'd landed. He could smell the scent of vampire in the air, meaning that Angel was still somewhere close by. "Where is he?"

"Wesley chained him to the bed." She said, through nearly clenched teeth. Her jaw was clearly causing her some significant pain. "Hopefully he's still out."

Doyle couldn't exactly disagree. "Maybe we should gag him. Just in case."

She didn't laugh or smile in reply—which was fine, since Doyle hadn't been joking. Her eyes looked nearly as wounded as her jaw; the non-physical damage having taken its toll. Doyle had no doubt she'd see much the same in his eyes, when they changed from demon-red to human-green.

"And the client?" He asked coldly, sensing no evidence that she was still around.

"Gone." Cordelia confirmed. "Unlikely to be using our services in the future… or setting me up with her shady manager."

Wesley stepped out of the bedroom, and Doyle finally did morph back into his human face, keeping his eyes safely trained on the other man instead of the woman beside him. "Chained up good and tight in there?"

"I used three sets, just to be safe." Wesley answered. "He hasn't regained consciousness. I suspect he'll be out for a while yet—he bled out internally, which may help the drug leave his system, but it'll also delay his healing." Wesley looked Doyle up and down, raising his eyebrows. "You recovered quite remarkably. I wasn't aware that Brachens were so resilient."

"All depends on the injury." Doyle replied, his words taking on double meaning at the moment. He hated that Angelus had been successful—had placed a wedge between he and Cordelia that wouldn't be easy to remove. But, there it was. He couldn't even look her in the eye right now, although his eyes briefly skimmed over her bruised jaw and his protective reflexives overrode everything else. "Ya need to get ice on that, darlin'."

He didn't wait for a reply, moving toward the kitchen. Both Cordelia and Wesley trailed behind him. Wesley stopped in the doorway, while Cordelia sat at one of the kitchen chairs, waiting for him to tend to her wound.

"I think I'll just be going now." Wesley said uncomfortably. "Please be sure to tell Angel there are no hard feelings."

Doyle paused in front of the freezer door he had just opened and turned back toward Wesley. "Hey, man, for the record, we all care that you're here, and we're all thankful for it. Just in case you were thinking otherwise."

Wesley looked genuinely touched by Doyle's assurances, taking a deep breath and blinking back what may have been tears. Okay, so maybe he didn't have to be that touched. "It is kind of you to say so, Doyle."

Doyle nodded at Wesley as he retreated from the entryway, and the thick layer of tension that hung over the two remaining occupants of the kitchen. Doyle had collected a fistful of ice, placed it in a clean dishcloth and formed a sack around the ice, twisting it so it wouldn't fall out. He brought it over to Cordelia, gently placing it against the side of her face. As she reached up to place her hand over his, he found himself looking directly at her. As a giant wave of shame washed over him, he suddenly thought better of letting Wesley leave. "Wesley, man... hold up. Ya think you could do me a favor and drive Cordelia home? I'll be staying here with Angel."

"No." Cordelia objected, looking up at Doyle with wide, pleading eyes. She was searching for something—some kind of reassurance that they were okay. Instead, he averted his gaze quickly and slipped his hand out from under hers, leaving her to hold the ice against her own face. He heard her breath catch and he knew it had upset her that he would move away from her like that.

Wesley had only made it a few steps, but he turned back and swallowed uncomfortably. "I can, of course. That is…will you be leaving now, Cordelia? I'm more than happy to wait if you need a few moments."

"Could you wait upstairs?" She asked Wesley in a strained voice, never pulling her eyes away from the side of Doyle's face. "I'll be right there."

"Yes, yes, of course." Wesley once again turned to the exit, and this time made haste to the stairs leading to the offices upstairs.

They were alone. Doyle found himself gripping the back of one of the empty chairs, staring intently at his knuckles as if they were the most fascinating thing in the room. Cordelia still sat in the chair beside him with the icepack to her jaw, but now she dropped it on the table with a dull thud.

"Don't you think we should talk?" She asked in a quietly pleading voice. That thing he'd been avoiding in her eyes, had now become airborne.

"Not tonight." He responded, also keeping his voice low.

"Oh." Her disappointment resonated in the single vowel. She seemed to accept that as the final word, slowly pulling herself out of the chair, but once she was in a standing position, she uncorked the flow of words she'd been holding back. "Doyle, I just need to tell you that I—"

"Don't!" He cut her off, using a little more volume than he'd intended. But, he was desperate to keep whatever she was going to say from slipping from her lips. He didn't want her to try and explain. "Please don't. You're only gonna make it worse, yeah?" He let out a deep sigh, hoping he could get her to understand why talking this one out wasn't as simple as she'd like it to be. "Do me a favor and go home, Cordelia."

She studied him silently for a moment, trying to gauge whether he was serious or just being seriously difficult. "I guess I don't have to ask if you'll be coming over later."

He didn't answer, didn't even nod. She knew the answer regardless.

Doyle heard the smallest, saddest of sighs emanate from her lips. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She began to walk around his back, in a slow procession toward the entryway of the kitchen and to the staircase beyond. He felt the sadness pour off her in waves, and knew he was the cause. Not Angelus, but him. He was the one who was letting her leave with so much left unsaid. Yet, even if he wanted to clear the air, he wouldn't know where to start. So, instead, he stood there blankly, letting her walk away from him.

Except she didn't walk away. She paused on the other side of him, and looked like she was debating whether or not she should proceed the rest of the way to the door or throw herself into his arms. She lifted her chin, mustering her stony resolve. "You can tell Angel I forgive him." She said simply. "Better yet, I'm willing to forget. Maybe you can try doing the same."

Doyle didn't reply, he merely stood by as she directed herself toward the doorway. Before she was even gone, he headed toward Angel's bedroom without looking back.


	33. Eternity, Pt 5

**"Eternity," Part V**

Doyle sat in the uncomfortable leather chair that had now become his Angel-is-chained-to-the-bed spot. As he watched the vampire stir, he did get an odd sense of déjà vu. Except, instead of waiting to convince Angel that he wasn't turning into Angelus, he had to convince him to get over the fact that he had turned into Angelus.

Angel groaned and then his eyes finally opened. He focused on Doyle who sat silently in the chair nearby, legs extended in front of him.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Angel moaned, blinking against the relatively dim light in the room.

"I take it you're no longer evil, then. Yeah?"

"Rebecca. Is she…?" Angel choked out, eyes darting around the room questioningly.

"Fine. Aside from the bite mark." Doyle answered, sitting up straight so he could lean closer to Angel. "You're not likely to be hearing from her again. Pretty sure you inspired her to grow old gracefully like the rest of us."

"Doyle… where's Cordelia? And Wesley. I need to apologize to all of you—"

"No, ya really don't." Doyle replied easily. "It was the drugs, plain and simple. The rest couldn't be helped. We're all in agreement on that point, so you'd best get on board—forget it ever happened. Move forward and all that."

"Thank you." Angel said, taking a deep, unneeded breath. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them he looked doubtfully at Doyle. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't unlock the chains."

"And if it was Cordy sitting here instead of me, she probably wouldn't." Doyle admitted, with a soft chuckle. Although, the smile died on his lips a moment after mentioning her name. A fact not lost on Angel.

"You told me to forget, Doyle." Angel pointed out. "You'd better be doing the same."

"Yeah, well… the thing is, it's a lot easier to forget that you were Angelus, than it is to forget the things he said. He might be an evil bastard, but he's also a truthful one, yeah?" Doyle stood up, unlocking the first of three padlocks.

"No, he's a manipulator." Angel responded. "It's just a piece of the truth warped into something that will cut deep and then twist the knife."

Doyle remained silent as he continued to unlock and unravel the chains. He could feel Angel's eyes on him and knew he wanted to say more. Knew he wanted to help undo the damage his alter-ego had done.

"I… uh, he was trying to break you." Angel explained quietly, voice heavy with remorse. "Don't let him succeed. You and Cordelia have something special—"

"Don't talk about her!" Doyle snarled, surprising even himself. An uncontrollable wave of anger had crested over him and as much as he wanted to forgive, forget and move on, the image of Angel standing menacingly over the woman he loved was seared into his eyeballs for a lifetime.

He pulled off a final set of chains, leaving the rest for Angel to undo himself, and headed out of the room toward the kitchen. When Angel joined him several minutes later, Doyle was seated at the kitchen table with an open bottle of whiskey and two glasses. One of those glasses had been filled and emptied once already, and was now being filled for the second time.

Angel pulled out one of the other chairs and sat down to join Doyle, taking the second glass of whiskey for himself.

"I meant what I said, man. I don't blame ya and I don't want ya blaming yourself." Doyle reiterated, keeping his eyes focused on the amber liquid in his glass.

"I know." Angel said carefully. "But maybe forgetting isn't the answer. Maybe you need to deal with what happened before you can move on."

"Deal with what? That the woman I love is goin' to leave me on account of _this_." Doyle replied lifting his glass and sloshing around the whiskey contained inside. "Or that the only reason she's with me in the first place is 'cause she's never been loved a day in her life and I'm just the first guy who came along and treated her halfway decent. All that is true. I can't deal with it, without agreeing with it!"

"You can stop drinking." Angel reasoned. "Keep treating her right, and you won't lose her for any of the reasons you're afraid of. As for the rest of it…" Angel gave a shrug. "Is it really such a bad thing if she's with you because you love her?"

"Ah… I suppose not." Doyle admitted, thinking back to the previous night in her apartment. She'd been all too happy to hear Doyle's words of love, but hadn't offered any of her own. It hadn't bothered him at the time—he knew how guarded she was when it came to her emotions, and he had no intentions of pushing her to say something she wasn't ready to say. It probably wouldn't have bothered him now if it weren't for the seeds of doubt Angelus had managed to sow. "But a fella has to wonder what would happen if there was competition. If she still would choose to be with me, yeah?"

"You don't mean that stuff about…" Angel mumbled, before clearing his throat awkwardly. "It would never happen, because…. Y'know, I'm not… what I mean is, she's not…"

Despite his gloomy mood, Doyle snorted at Angel's obvious discomfort. "I wasn't implying that you'd be the competition, mate." Doyle clarified with a smirk. "I'm not so insecure that I can't accept she finds ya attractive. I myself can admit to seeing the appeal... But, you're kinda cheap, so looks aside, I doubt she'd go for ya."

Angel found himself also chuckling at the absurd idea of he and Cordelia ever dating. He emptied his glass in reply and placed it back down on the table with a clank. When he finally spoke his voice was laden with sincerity. "Cordelia's with you because she wants to be, Doyle. Nothing that happened tonight is going to change that unless you let it."

Doyle nodded in agreement, feeling considerably better about the situation now that Angel had weighed in and put things into perspective. Maybe Doyle had been overreacting, caught up in the feelings of shame that had risen as his worst fears were laid bare in front of the woman to whom he only wanted to show his best. But, he couldn't let those words become a self-fulfilling prophecy—if anything, he had to fight harder against letting them be true.

Just as Angel had to fight hard to forget that he'd ever said them.

"I get it now." Doyle said, placing his second glass of whiskey back down on the table, still half-full. "Why ya destroyed the Ring of Amara. Why you were so afraid of enjoyin' those dreams ya shared with Penn… I thought I knew all along, but... it's a fine line ya walk, yeah?"

"It helps to have someone walking with me." Angel confessed, giving Doyle a grateful smile.

"Don't mention it." Doyle said, returning the grin. "But, gotta say, being your best friend is a dangerous gig. Should really come with some hazard pay or a bonus at the very least."

"Can't afford it." Angel deadpanned.

Doyle chortled in reply, raising his brows with purpose. "Like I said. Cheap."

* * *

Cordelia blinked her bleary eyes open and looked at the clock next to her bed—it was still really early. Why then, had she sworn she just heard a knock at her door? Must have been one of those weird dream things.

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

Nope. There it was again. Audible knocking in a non-dream state.

She pulled herself out of bed, groaning at the lingering pain in her deeply bruised jaw. She trudged toward the front door in her comfy cotton pajamas—no robe needed, as they were quite modest in nature. She'd worn her favorite PJs last night specifically because she needed something cuddly to console her after the long, terrible night. She would've preferred the consoling to come in the arms of her boyfriend rather than several layers of cotton, but instead he was part of the need for consolation.

She peeked through the peephole and immediately opened the door, her grumpy exhaustion giving way to surprise.

Doyle stood in her doorway with his trademark grin, a coffee cup in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. In opposition to his smile, his eyelids were heavy and there were dark bags evident underneath his eyes. She noted that he was also wearing the same clothes as the day before; a clear indication that he'd never made it home to sleep the previous night. "Mornin', Princess. Sorry if I woke ya. Your car's still at the office, so I figured you'd need a lift to work."

She blinked a few times to make sure she was really awake and not dreaming. When last she'd seen Doyle, she hadn't imagined she'd find him on her doorstep the next morning. Certainly not with a smile on his face. Nor with flowers in his hand, for that matter. And even on the best of mornings, he wasn't exactly an early riser.

Cordelia stared at him in bewilderment. He'd completely shut her out the night before, struggling with the verbal damage inflicted by Angelus. She had been desperate to talk to him and clear the air and instead she'd been shut down and sent home. To say it had hurt, would be an understatement. Instinctually, she had wanted to be angry—lash out at him for what felt like a rejection. Maybe it was a sign that she was growing, that instead of being angry, she was concerned. Because she knew he was hurting, too, and she wanted to comfort him as much as herself.

Although, from the looks of things, he didn't seem to need any comforting at the moment.

"You brought me flowers?" She asked in confusion.

"Ah... yeah." He said holding them out to her in offering, and then gesturing with his other hand. "Coffee, too."

"Why?" She wondered, taking the bouquet from his hand and burying her nose in the delicious smell. She left him holding the cup of coffee, but she could smell that as well—it was the good stuff.

"I need a reason to bring flowers to my girlfriend?" He asked nonchalantly, but there might have been an edge of subtext there—maybe he was asking if she was still his girlfriend, and whether or not she'd remain as such. She watched as his eyes fixated on her swollen jawbone, and he lifted his free hand gently to take a closer look. She didn't move away or flinch, instead lifting her chin so he could move in for the inspection. The feel of his fingertips lightly grazing her skin was enough to send a shiver through her body. "How's that feeling?"

"It's not as bad as it looks." It was true, but only because it looked really bad. She actually needed to take some more Ibuprofen this morning if she wanted to be able to continue to use her jaw throughout the day.

He kept his hand on her face sliding it back into her hair, brushing a few stray pieces away. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop him, love."

"Not many people could have." Cordelia assured him quietly. She was feeling the effects of having him so close, and being so gentle with her. This is what she had wanted from him the night before. She wanted him to show her that they'd be alright. That Angelus hadn't broken anything that couldn't be repaired. Last night she'd feared they were doomed, but everything looked different this morning. "So, what gives? Last night you couldn't even look at me and this morning you're on my doorstep bearing gifts. You were the one who was mad—shouldn't I be bringing _you_ gifts? Not that I would… it's just more customary in these sorts of situations."

"Ya mean situations when your vampire boss turns evil and airs all your dirty laundry in humiliating fashion? 'Cause I wasn't aware there were any customs in that regard." Doyle's green eyes reminded her of the ocean, always changing. They twinkled with humor as he jested back at her, but once the humor drained it revealed pure tenderness. "I was never mad at ya, darlin'. It wasn't what Angelus said about you that bothered me. It's what he said 'bout me." He paused and swallowed apprehensively as he admitted the bitter truth. "It was having ya hear those things."

"You were embarrassed." She understood, but then followed up with a frustrated shake of her head, causing him to drop his hand from her face. "Don't you think I was embarrassed, too?! I mean, he told me I'm a terrible actress. Which means, that's what Angel really thinks."

Doyle chuckled, probably relieved at the fact she felt most slighted by Angelus' critique of her acting skills, rather than the rest of it. Truthfully, she was more than a little mortified by the rather accurate assessment of her desire to be loved. Having grown up without that feeling, she wasn't used to wanting it—although using the word 'desperate' was a bit harsh. If she didn't think it'd have the opposite effect on Doyle, she would have liked to clarify that she wasn't with him out of desperation, nor was she oblivious to his flaws as a result. Of course, if she started down that path, then she'd be forced to tell him why she _was_ with him, and she wasn't entirely ready for that just yet.

"Don't hold it against him." Doyle appealed on his friend's behalf. "I mean… don't tell him I told ya, but the guy's a Barry Manilow fan. His tastes aren't always on par with the younger generation, yeah?"

"Uh huh." She said with a knowing smirk. She held up the flowers in her hand to indicate his altered mood. "So now you're over the whole thing—just like that? Or are you just prioritizing your sex life over your ego?"

She could've sworn he blushed at that comment, before clearing his throat uncomfortably and scratching at the back of his head. "Well, I, uh... had myself a little chat with Angel. He helped put things in perspective." Doyle explained, intently studying the tips of his shoes. "Aside from that, I suppose I just needed a night to lick my wounds. That's all."

"That's all, huh?" A wicked grin spread across her face at his word selection, and she took a step closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. The bouquet of flowers in her hand rested against the back of his leather jacket. "Why would you ever lick your own wounds when I'm here to lick them for you?"

His grin turned deliciously naughty and he arched an approving brow at her as he snaked his free arm around her waist. "Ah, Princess, I think I'm finally rubbing off on ya."

She kissed him in reply, ignoring the slight throb of her jaw. As she stepped backwards into the apartment, she pulled him along with her and probably would've kept pulling until they hit the bedroom, if he hadn't regretfully pulled out of her embrace.

"Much as I hate to say it... we don't have time for all that." He admitted with reluctance. "The Powers already sent me my morning wake-up call—someone needs saving and we're the one's to be doing it."

"Seriously?" She pouted up at him, disappointed that they'd have to start their day without a _proper_ reconciliation. He nodded in confirmation, but his eyes belied his body language—the mischievous twinkle remained. "I have time for a shower, right?"

"Only if ya finish quick." Doyle replied, trading her the coffee cup for the flowers in her hand. "I'll stick these in some water while ya go make yourself… uh… no less gorgeous than you already are, o'course."

"Good save." She said wryly. She watched him head toward her kitchen with the flowers, appreciating the view. She bit on the edge of the cardboard coffee cup, and decided one more attempt to have her way with him wouldn't hurt. "Looks like you could use a shower, too, Doyle. Think _you_ can finish quick?"

She let the invitation hang there as she discarded the coffee cup on the table, removed and tossed her pajamas on the floor behind her and entered the bathroom. She'd only just stepped into the warm stream of water, when the curtain was pulled back and Doyle stepped in behind her, nude as the day he was born. How he'd managed to undress that fast was a modern miracle. He slid his arms around her waist from behind and kissed up the side of her neck. When he got to her ear, he gave a little bite and then growled into it. "I know a shortcut—could save us some time driving cross town."

She spun around to capture his lips, and wrapped her arms around him as the water poured down over their bare skin. She kissed him eagerly, letting all the drama of the previous night wash down the drain with the discarded water. "I like this better than flowers." She whispered. "Remember that for the next time our boss turns evil and tries to break us up."

"I'll remember." He chuckled, before reclaiming her lips for his own.

They didn't make it nearly as quick as they should have, but they were still in time to save the day.


	34. Five by Five, Pt 1

**"Five by Five," Part I**

"He's never gonna do it. What a waste of Doyle's already limited brain cells."

"Heeeey." Doyle opened one eye, and directed it upward to where his girlfriend was pacing the floor outside of Angel's closed office door. Inside, Angel was discussing the finer points of turning state's witness to a tattooed thug named Marquez—currently alone in this world, now that all his friends had been dismembered and incinerated by a group of demon assassins.

At least Doyle's vision had led them to save the right guy, and just in the nick of time, too. Shame about his friends though.

"That wasn't an insult, Doyle." Cordelia explained, making her way over to where he lay horizontally on the couch with his leather jacket thrown over him as a blanket. It had been a long night in a sea of long nights. Doyle could hardly remember the last time he'd spent a full night in an actual bed. "I'm merely pointing out that the Powers That Be sent us on a fool's errand with this guy. He's never gonna testify."

"But the brain cell bit… that was a cheap shot, yeah?" Doyle mumbled into the arm he was using as a pillow.

She wrinkled her nose in disagreement and placed her hands on her hips as she made her case. "Sorry to break it to you, but I'm pretty sure those visions are massacring a small village of brain cells every time they hit. And, the shot of whiskey you took right after the vision—that's also big with the brain cell killing. It's amazing you're as smart as you are considering the cells in your brain should probably be on the endangered species list."

"Can't argue with that." He conceded, closing his eye once again and trying to burrow deeper under the jacket-turned-blanket. Cordelia leaned down, smoothing the jacket over him as if she was tucking in a small child. She then planted a light kiss on Doyle's forehead.

A smile spread across his lips as his eye popped open once again. "Hope ya don't do that for all your co-workers, darlin'."

A loud snore emanated from one of those other co-workers. Wesley was asleep with his head down on Cordelia's desk. He stirred a bit, making a series of snorting sounds and then fell back into a more rhythmic breathing pattern.

"Only the Irish ones." She responded with a laugh, then as it occurred to her that Angel was also Irish, she amended her previous statement. "Who don't have fangs."

The door to Angel's office burst open, giving Cordelia a start. The short, stocky man named Marquez came barreling out, making a break for the front door. "No way. I'm gone!"

Angel didn't even bother leaving his office. It was merely his arm that darted out, catching Marquez by the shirt collar and yanking him back inside. "Shut up and sit down!"

The door slammed shut once again, causing Wesley to sit up straight behind the desk, shaking his head in sleepy confusion.

Cordelia gave Doyle a skeptical shrug, as if to say her point was just illustrated rather plainly. She then turned to Wesley and gestured to her mouth. "Uh, Wesley…. you have a little drool…"

* * *

Cordelia balanced the phone in the crook of her neck as she listened to the very dignified voice on the other end of the line talk about the dissolution of his marriage—or rather, the anticipated dissolution of said marriage. Okay, more like the bloody murder of his marriage, without the literal blood or murder. She had barely been listening, merely waiting for the right moment to let him down easy.

"Unfortunately we don't really do divorce cases…. No, it's not about the money… Oh, it's about _that_ much money?! How soon can we meet?"

Doyle sauntered through the doorway from Angel's office flashing her a negative look and gesturing for her not to do what he knew she was about to do. He was right; Angel didn't do broken marriages or scandalous affairs, not when there were people being threatened by literal evil on a nightly basis. But then she remembered how overdue their electric bill was and she found herself scribbling the guy's information on a post-it note. "Yeah, I know where that is. Okay, we'll see you there tomorrow. Thanks for calling. Bye!"

"Cordelia." Doyle warned, after she'd hung up the receiver. "Angel's never gonna go for that. Doesn't matter how much it pays."

"Why were you eavesdropping in the first place, huh?" Cordelia asked defiantly, not meeting Doyle's disapproving eyes. "Isn't that a violation of client-detective rights or something?"

Doyle moved forward and perched himself on the edge of her desk as he did so often. Cordelia used to think he only did that in order to see down her blouse—which he probably did—but it was also the closest he could reasonably sit to her when she was behind the desk. And he liked to be close; he liked to let her know that she had his undivided attention. "I wasn't eavesdropping, Princess. I was sitting right in the next room. In case ya didn't know, your lovely voice carries right through the door." He leaned over and picked up the post-it note, studying what she'd written down. "And this guy's not a client, yet. That's sorta the point…. For argument's sake, how much is he willing to pay?"

"The number's at the bottom." She said nonchalantly. She didn't have to look up to see Doyle's reaction, she heard his subtle gasp and imagined his eyes were doing that nearly-bugging-out-of-his-head thing.

She smiled up at him triumphantly, seeing that she'd already won the battle. Doyle was an easy mark—when it came to money matters, he usually sided with Cordelia. Especially considering she'd just spent the better part of the morning complaining to him just how broke they were—verging on bankrupt. They couldn't even afford to buy magazines to fill their waiting room at this rate, and without those magazines her job was going to be a whole lot more boring. If they didn't get a paying client soon, there would be no Angel Investigations. And that was something they could all agree was bad news.

The familiar whir and clank of the elevator in Angel's office told Doyle and Cordelia they were about to get either very good news or very bad news, depending on how today's trial went. Cordelia looked up at the two grinning idiots who entered the room a few moments later and didn't have to wonder which type of news it was.

"We won!" Wesley announced unnecessarily.

"Well done, Angel, man. I knew you'd show that guy the err of his ways." Doyle said approvingly, standing up from his perch and walking over to give Angel a friendly pat on the back.

"What I think he showed him was his vamp face." Cordelia snorted.

"He just needed a little guidance." Angel agreed proudly. "A push in the right direction."

"Yes, well, the celebration may be short lived. I have to assume that Wolfram & Hart will be pushing back in our direction." Wesley reminded them.

Doyle folded his arms over his chest and nodded along with Wesley's train of thought. "We're on their bad side now. That's for sure."

"Haven't we been on their bad side since Angel turned one of their most valuable clients into a not-quite-human fireball?" Cordelia asked pointedly, looking up from her desk. "And then made it worse by robbing them of Doyle's eyeballs, which they won fair and square via auction. And then there was that time when that Lilah-whatsherface-character wanted to buy Angel—"

"Ah, Cordy, I think we all get the point, yeah?" Doyle interrupted her.

"We're on their _really_ bad side now." Angel guessed with a small shrug, heading into his office. He was probably planning on doing that thing where he put his feet up on the desk and smirked to himself, reflecting on a job well done. It was Angel's equivalent to a celebratory parade down Main Street.

Cordelia stood up from the desk retrieving the post-it Doyle had moved off to the side. She waved it in the air and raised her eyebrows at Doyle encouragingly, speaking in a voice intended to carry to the other room. "Why don't you tell Angel about our good news? The new _paying_ case."

Doyle's eyes diverted to the ceiling, but he obediently snatched the small square of paper and followed Angel into his office. "Hey Angel, man, I've been thinking—there's an untapped goldmine of hopeless individuals just waiting for our help, and as a formerly married man, I feel compelled to plead their case…"

* * *

Doyle exited the elevator behind Angel and Cordelia, wearing a deep frown on his face. They were on their way to meet their new potential client, and on the way up from the underground garage, Cordelia had politely informed him that he wasn't actually invited to lunch.

"Maybe ya coulda mentioned something back at the office, yeah?" Doyle grumbled trudging behind them.

"I did." Cordelia reminded him. "What do you think that whole big speech about our lack of petty cash was about?"

"I thought you were saying all that to keep Wesley from coming!" Doyle whined. "And what about the fact that we wouldn't even be having this little lunch date if it weren't for me, huh? I'm the one who convinced Angel to go along with all this."

Angel snorted derisively. "I can still change my mind."

"Angel gets to go and he doesn't even eat!" Doyle complained. "Did I mention that I'm starving?"

"Doyle." She said, pausing long enough to drop back to his slightly slower pace. "Do you really want to eat at one of those highfalutin places where they put sprouts on everything? You hate sprouts. Wouldn't you rather just run over to In-N-Out and grab a burger and fries?"

Well, when she put it that way. He really did hate sprouts. "Fine." He relented. "I'll meet ya back here in an hour, yeah? And you'd better have us a new client, so that next time we can _all_ eat."

He started to walk away when a strange wave of intuition hit him. Every one of his senses—along with all the hairs on his neck—were at full attention. He didn't have time to analyze what it might mean, as he raced the few steps to catch up with Angel and simultaneously felt a bolt of pain through his right shoulder.

It nearly knocked him off his feet, so sudden and intense was the pain. His body reflexively tried to morph into his demon form, and it took every ounce of willpower he had to ensure it didn't happen in front of the dozens of eyeballs around him. He felt the quills barely graze the surface of his skin before he was retracting them—a blink and a miss. Angel spun around in a split second and caught Doyle as he was propelled forward. It took Cordelia another moment to react, and when she did, she shrieked in terror. "Oh my God, Doyle!"

He still wasn't sure what had hit him, but he twisted his head around to see a wooden bolt sticking out of his shoulder blade. A bolt that had been aimed directly at Angel's heart.

"Well, alright!" An enthusiastic female voice with a distinct New England accent echoed throughout the lobby where they stood.

Doyle, still being held up by Angel and worried over by Cordelia, craned his neck to see an attractive, leather clad brunette, wearing a broad grin. A crossbow was slung over her shoulder, making it no secret that she'd been the one to shoot. "This is gonna be way more fun than I thought. Let the games begin!"

She didn't wait for a reply, taking off at full speed—which was clearly faster than that of an average human—and disappearing into the bright sunshine outdoors.

"Friend o' yours?" Doyle gasped, finding it hard to move the right side of his body. Not only had the bolt sunk itself deep into his muscle tissue, but there was a burning sensation radiating from the wound—as if there was a chemical element.

"Faith!" Angel cried after her, clearly in a state of shock. "I thought she was in a coma."

"She wouldn't have been able to shoot Doyle if she was in a coma!" Cordelia scathed. "We need to get him to a hospital."

"No hospital." Doyle choked out, struggling to find his voice.

Angel was already moving back to the elevator and the waiting car below. He kept an arm under Doyle's uninjured shoulder, making sure he stayed on his feet. Cordelia scurried along beside them, digging for her cell phone as she moved. When she finally yanked it out of her bag she rapidly dialed the office. "Wesley, it's me... No, no. Listen... _Faith's_ awake..."


	35. Five by Five, Pt 2

**"Five by Five," Part II**

Doyle was seated, shirtless at Angel's kitchen table while Wesley and Cordelia fussed over his wound.

He groaned as Wesley put a final stitch into the back of his shoulder. The whiskey bottle he gripped in his left hand was shakily brought up to his lips, and he heard Cordelia's worried sigh. At least she didn't chastise him for drinking, probably realizing that if any man needed a drink, it was one who'd just been shot in the back by a bolt from a crossbow.

The do-it-yourself "surgery" had tested the limits of Doyle's pain threshold. If he'd thought the bolt hurt going in, it was nothing compared to having it forcibly yanked out. The stitches Wesley had put in thereafter were a picnic in comparison. The real issue, however, was the burning and throbbing that seemed to be located deep within the muscle tissue of his shoulder. The sensation hadn't disappeared with the removal of the bolt. And the numbness that radiated down his arm was more than a little disconcerting. He still wasn't willing to risk a trip to the hospital, but he had to wonder if there wasn't some kind of permanent nerve damage as a result of the deep puncture wound.

Wesley moved out of the way, so Cordelia could step in and place a thick bandage over the fresh stitches, gently taping it in place. Meanwhile, Wesley walked over to the sink to wash Doyle's blood from his hands.

"I'm afraid that's the best I can do." Wesley said, with his back turned and the water running.

Cordelia's nervous fingers lingered on Doyle's flesh, one of them traced over the tattoo that sat several inches away from his wound. He could feel the concern pouring off her, and as much as he was touched, her rattled nerves were causing him more anxiety than anything else. He pushed his chair back from the table and used his good arm to pull her down into his lap, placing a reassuring kiss on her shoulder. "I'm fine now, love. Doctor Wesley did a real good job."

She looked like she wanted to say something, but Angel's abrupt entrance cut her off. "Giles said she left Sunnydale about a week ago. He described her mental state as borderline psychotic."

"Nothing borderline about it." Cordelia grumbled halfheartedly. "I mean, did you see her outfit?"

Wesley had picked up the bolt that was previously occupying Doyle's shoulder and was studying it closely. He was visibly distracted as he answered Angel. "It isn't right. I was Faith's Watcher. Giles should have contacted me the moment she woke from her coma."

"Sounds like he may have had his hands full." Doyle surmised, noting the worry lines that had appeared on his best friend's brow. "She went after Buffy first, yeah? The girl okay?"

Angel nodded curtly. "Yeah, but... Giles said it was rough."

"Any of _her_ friends get shot?" Cordelia inquired accusingly from her place on Doyle's lap. He gave her arm a little squeeze, hoping she'd stay focused on the more important fact—there was a rogue slayer on the loose and she was gunning for Angel. Cordelia got the message and sighed deeply. "What can we do to help?"

"Help me track her down. Check police reports—beatings, killings—anything within the last week, possibly near bus stations and bars. And then you make yourselves scarce. I don't want anyone else getting hurt—or worse."

"A rogue slayer just tried to kill ya, man!" Doyle objected. "And she came very close to succeeding. We can't just hide our heads in the sand and leave ya to it."

Cordelia turned toward Doyle, leveling him with a baffled stare. "She almost killed _you_ , Doyle! I think the sand idea sounds pretty great, if you ask me, as long as that sand is nowhere near Los Angeles."

"She wasn't aiming for me, darlin'." Doyle pointed out. "I'm not the one who should be laying low."

"No, she wasn't aiming for you." Wesley interjected, causing both Cordelia and Doyle to lift their heads back in his direction. His eyes were still glued to the end of the bolt and he was touching it gingerly, testing for something on his fingertips. He lifted his index finger to his nose and took a whiff. "It was meant for a vampire—it's laced with poison. I imagine it's the same one she used on Angel once before."

Cordelia's eyes had grown wide with fear. "What does that mean?" She choked, protectively leaning closer to Doyle's body. "Does Doyle have to drink Slayer blood?"

"I don't drink blood." Doyle reminded her, a look of disgust crossing his face at the very idea of doing such a thing.

"A Slayer's blood is the cure for the poison." Angel explained, wearing one of his trademark unreadable expressions. "But, Doyle isn't a vampire. And so far... well, he isn't reacting the way I did. That has to be a good sign, right?"

Wesley brought his eyes up from the poisoned bolt and gave a hesitant nod. "Indeed, although I'd have to do more research to know for sure. It shouldn't do anything to a normal human, but—"

"I'm half demon." Doyle finished for him. "The poison targets demon blood. I can feel it."

Cordelia twisted her body toward him as if insulted by his words, her hands flew to his chest and then his neck, feeling for a sign that what he was saying was true. "You feel the poison?" She asked horrified. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?!"

"I didn't know that's what I was feelin'." Doyle admitted, catching her arms with his good hand and reassuring her. "Just 'cause I can feel it doesn't mean I'm dying or anything, so don't go getting yourself all worked up, Cordy. It's a little on the painful side, but I'm thinkin' I'll pull through once it works its way outta my system."

"You may wish to avoid phasing into your demon form while the poison is in your blood." Wesley suggested. "It could potentially worsen the effects."

"You do know who you're talking to, right?" Cordelia scoffed. "That's like telling the Pope he should avoid sinning."

"I think what Cordy's trying to say is, that won't be a problem." Doyle said agreeably, but then raised his eyes back toward Angel meaningfully. "The real issue here is that our psychotic little slayer means business. That wasn't a warning shot—it was a kill shot."

"How did you know to block it?" Angel asked, eying Doyle curiously.

"Way to miss the point, Mr. Bull's-eye." Cordelia interrupted, standing abruptly from Doyle's lap and missing the silent communication that was transpiring between the two men. Doyle knew what Angel was asking—if this was something he'd gleaned in the vision from the other Cordelia. It wasn't, but for the life of him, Doyle would never be able to explain how he knew that shot was coming. He'd just... sensed it.

"You want us gone, right, Angel?" Cordelia continued, hovering over Doyle who remained seated. "Good, then I accept, on behalf of me and Doyle. Sandy shores, here we come."

"Hey—!" Doyle started, but wasn't able to get any further objections out before she whirled at him, finger wagging in his face.

"Don't look at it as hiding, Doyle. Look at it as going on vacation. A vacation that we both very much deserve. A vacation that will keep any more poison-laced arrows from landing in your back." She placed her hands on her hips and stared down at him threateningly. "Besides, what good are you to Angel if you can't even move half your body?"

"I can move more than half—Ah!" He argued, trying to prove his point by lifting his right arm. What he managed was barely a twitch of his fingers and a paralyzing wave of pain. "Yeah, okay." He grumbled reluctantly, conceding on her last point, if nothing else.

"You, too, Wesley." Angel ordered, before striding from the room.

"You're not coming with us, though. That part was clear, right?" Cordelia clarified, giving Wesley a saccharine smile.

Wesley ignored Cordelia's comment rounding the table to meet Doyle's eyes, which were aimed downward toward the linoleum below. "You can't really be considering leaving him alone with this. We're a team. We should be sticking together in a crisis."

"Not my choice, bud." Doyle replied with a shade of sarcasm to his voice. "Angel's the boss."

Doyle didn't agree with Angel on this matter, but until he had full use of the right side of his body, he had no choice but to play along.

* * *

"Doyle can you stop looking at that report thingie and focus on making a mental itinerary for our trip? I was thinking, we drive down the coast—I know this gorgeous spot down in Laguna..." Cordelia had been talking excitedly the whole drive from the police station, where they'd picked up the reports Angel had requested, back to her apartment. She paused to see Doyle still furrowing his forehead at something on the sheet of paper in front of him, and she finally yanked it out of his hand and began folding it up. "I really hope you won't be a grump the whole time we're away. I mean, I get why you're worried for Angel. I'm worried, too."

Doyle snorted his dispute with that statement and she huffed back at him. "I am!" She asserted. "I consider him a friend. More than that even, like a brother...okay, maybe not that exactly. But, like, an older-relative of some sort." She shook her head, regaining her original train of thought. "The point is I'm worried for Angel, but this whole hero thing is what he signed up for. It's what he's supposed to do. It's not what _you're_ supposed to do. You're just the messenger-guy, remember? And messengers get vacations."

"I know ya don't think of me as the hero-type, Cordy, but I'm a lot more than just messenger-guy these days." He argued gently, too exhausted to get into a big debate about why he needed to protect Angel at all costs. "It's important Angel lives to see another fight after this one."

"Not if it means you don't." She said bluntly. "I'm sorry, Doyle, but you can't convince me that Angel's life is more important than yours. And the fact that you're always volunteering to incinerate yourself or jump in front of poisoned arrows—I hate it, okay! I mean, I've never had an ulcer before, but I'm pretty sure I will have one from all the worrying I do over you." She removed the shrill quality from her voice and gave him a heartfelt plea instead. "I don't want to lose you. Is that so wrong?"

Her words had their intended impact and she saw his eyes soften and a small smile play at his lips. There wasn't a man alive who didn't want to hear that his life mattered to the woman he loved. "Alright, Princess... I'm right here. And as much as I hate leaving Angel without any backup, I do plan on enjoying our little getaway."

Cordelia gave him a knowing look. "Wesley's not leaving, is he?"

"Ya didn't hear that from me." Doyle played coy, but it was obvious she was right.

She rolled her eyes lightly, but gave him a smile and turned to unlock her front door. She pushed the door open and it slammed right back in her face.

"Phantom Dennis, let us in." She yelled as she pushed the door open a second time. It slammed shut once again.

Doyle gave her a cockeyed grin. "Seems Dennis might be getting a little jealous of me, yeah?"

"Dennis, what the hell?!" She shouted at the closed door. "It's only me and Doyle. He's here all the time! Usually in a state of undress. It's a little late to be jealous!"

Doyle was chuckling beside her, and she glared at him, before trying for a third time to push the door open. This time it stayed that way and she breezed through it. "Thank you!"

"It's alright, Dennis, man. I get it. And I take no offense." Doyle said amicably, conversing with the empty air. "I'm taking her away from ya for a little while, but I promise to bring her back in pristine condition."

Cordelia shook her head at him, completely un-amused by Phantom Dennis' unusual antics. "If you're done reasoning with my ghostly roommate, you should call Angel to tell him about whatever was giving you worry lines." His face scrunched up in reaction to her comment and she handed him back the folded up police report she had snagged several minutes earlier. "You were reading the report and your face got all scrunchy—sort of like it is now, but different."

He took the paper from her and headed for the phone. "You'd better get packing, Princess. And don't feel like ya need to bring your entire wardrobe... in fact, I'm thinking clothes are entirely optional on this particular trip, yeah?" He waggled his eyebrows at her, before lifting the receiver.

"Ooooh, aren't we a naughty one?" Faith said, stepping out of the shadows. "Cordelia's got herself a boy toy with a dirty mouth and a scrumptious accent. Too bad I only came here to torture and kill all Angel's friends, otherwise I could see us having some fun together."

Doyle was frozen in place, the phone receiver still in hand, fingers hovering above the undialed keypad. He thought it unlikely he'd be able to dial now, not without having his fingers crushed by the young woman who'd sauntered out of the darkness. Cordelia was only a few steps behind him, but he felt her move closer in response to Faith's taunt. "You keep your skanky Slayer paws off my boyfriend! You already shot him once today, isn't that enough?!"

"Cordy, maybe don't talk back to the lady just now?" Doyle suggested, trying to keep his voice light, and not let it reveal just how terrified he was. He placed the phone back down and stepped back a step, holding his hands out in surrender, making it clear he wasn't intending to play hero.

"Yeah, _Cordy._ " Faith said mockingly, stepping up to the two of them. She let her eyes roam over Doyle in a vaguely appreciative manner—but coming from her, it looked threatening. Predator sizing up prey. "So, you're the guy who jumped in front of that arrow, huh? Angel was wicked pissed about that. Good reflexes." Within the blink of an eye she slugged him and he went down—out cold. "Mine are better, though."

With Doyle down for the count, Faith took another menacing step toward Cordelia who had thought better of making any further commentary. "You're in luck, Cordelia, I'm not looking for Irish… I have a taste for something a little more uptight. A little more English…"

"I don't know where Wesley is." Cordelia lied, backpedaling nervously.

Faith gave her a pitying look, and then pulled a small purple address book out of her back pocket. "Lying to me—that's gonna cost you." Faith gripped Cordelia by the back of the hair and pulled her toward the bathroom, kicking up the lid of the toilet and holding Cordelia's head over it threateningly. "You can make it up to me by giving Angel a message."

Cordelia breathed rapidly, using her hands to brace herself against the lip of the toilet. "What message?"

"Well, I guess it's more like you _are_ the message..." With that Faith shoved Cordelia's head under the water, letting her thrash and struggle for air. Cordelia could feel her lungs burning and the pain increased with each passing moment. Then everything seemed darker and farther away until she felt like she was floating.

Floating into _nothingness_.


	36. Five by Five, Pt 3

**"Five by Five," Part III**

Angel ran through the open door of Cordelia's apartment, sensing right away that things weren't right. He knew they were both there—Cordelia and Doyle—he could smell them both in the air. No blood. But, something was wrong. The heartbeats he heard were both erratic, one too fast, the other… _where was the other?_

"Cordelia?! Doyle?!" He called out, sprinting down the hallway.

He spotted movement in the bathroom and he pushed the slightly ajar door all the way open. Cordelia lay on the ground, her clothes and her hair were soaking wet. Doyle was leaning over her, kissing her passionately.

No, not kissing. Breathing. He was giving her CPR.

Angel circled around to get a better view and noticed that Cordelia's complexion had a sickening greyish hue to it. His heart caught in his throat as he watched his best friend, pause from the breathing to pump her chest, counting softly to himself. There was nothing Angel could do, but watch. It reminded him of all those years ago when he'd stood by and watched as Xander worked to bring Buffy back. He had to hope Doyle would be just as lucky this time.

Angel watched for seconds that felt like hours, not knowing how long this had been going on before he arrived. Not knowing if there was still time…

Doyle breathed again into her mouth and that's when it happened. Cordelia began to choke and spit up water. Her eyes fluttered open and she began gasping for breath. Breathing on her own.

"Oh, thank God." Doyle cried, drawing her body upward to a sitting position and hugging her close to him. His hand rested on the base of her skull as he kissed her forehead and her temple, holding her close as she sputtered and coughed against him. Angel could see the tears in Doyle's eyes, and at that moment, Angel was almost certain he had them in his own as well.

That had been too close. Much too close.

Doyle held Cordelia's face in his hands, studying her, looking for any other injuries he'd missed in his haste to revive her. "That bitch needs to pay for this." He growled, more to himself than to her.

"Wesley." Cordelia rasped with alarm in between coughs. "She's going after him."

"I'll call his cell." Angel said, racing back out of the bathroom to let Doyle and Cordelia collect themselves for a moment. He found the phone off its hook, and pressed the button until he got a dial tone. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer at Wesley's place. He had let it ring far longer than necessary when Doyle came out of the bathroom clasping Cordelia's hand tightly in his own. Now that she was breathing, the color had returned to her cheeks, and aside from her wet hair and frazzled nerves, she looked considerably better than Doyle who was still favoring his left arm and now had a nasty shiner around his right eye to go with his previous injuries.

Angel slammed down the phone and shook his head in frustration. "No answer. Maybe he already left town."

The grim looks he got from the other two, confirmed what he'd feared all along—Wesley had never intended to leave. He wasn't as careless about answering his cell phone as Angel or Doyle, therefore, the probability was high that Faith had already reached her target. Angel closed his eyes in silent defeat; when he opened them again he was no closer to finding Faith or Wesley.

Doyle let go of Cordelia's hand and moved forward. He pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and held it out for Angel. As Angel took the page, Doyle pointed at an item toward the top. "Tracked the recent assaults, bar fights and 'bitch-from-hell' sightings. This one's of particular interest. Monday night a guy was beaten up at the bus station, wallet and car were stolen. The guy's still in the hospital. My bet that's where she's been staying."

"Good work." Angel replied. "Do we know where the guy lives?"

Doyle flipped a few pages in the report and pointed to another section. "That's his home address. Halfway across town."

"We need to get moving." Angel confirmed. Doyle turned his worried eyes over to Cordelia who looked understandably unnerved by her recent brush with death. Angel had anticipated Doyle coming with him under the circumstances, but they couldn't leave Cordelia behind. The odds of Faith returning to Cordelia's apartment were slim, but they certainly weren't going to risk it. "Cordelia, we can drop you at Doyle's place on the way. You should stay there for now."

A silent look passed between Cordelia and Doyle in which it seemed an entire conversation took place. The end result was a resigned nod from Cordelia. She then turned toward Angel with a hesitant reply. "Doyle's place isn't safe. She took my address book—she can find it."

"Seeing how she and I were never properly introduced, she won't know which address is mine, yeah?" Doyle pointed out, moving toward her to place a comforting arm around her shoulders. "She'd have to stalk everyone you've ever met in this fine city in order to find my place—she doesn't strike me as the type with the patience for all that."

"There's nowhere else that's any safer." Angel added. "She thinks she killed you, and we won't give her a chance to find out she didn't."

Cordelia nodded in agreement, still looking like she had some reservations, but then she surprised both Angel and Doyle by focusing cold, hard eyes on each one of them in turn. "Do me a favor, when you get your hands on that bitch— _don't_ be gentle."

With that, she grabbed her purse, which had been discarded on the floor, and stormed toward the front door without another word.

* * *

Doyle stood behind Angel as he kicked in the door. The burst of flames on the other side was a disheartening sight, as was the bruised and bloodied mess they usually called Wesley. Faith threw aside the homemade flamethrower and put a knife to Wesley's throat faster than Doyle's eyes could follow—the girl was incredibly quick, he'd seen that more than once. His swollen right eye could certainly attest to it. He vaguely wondered if Buffy was as fast, having never seen the other slayer in action, despite meeting her briefly.

"About time, soul-boy. Ready to play now?" Faith taunted.

"I'm ready." Angel growled in reply.

Angel stepped further into the room, while Doyle hung back in the doorway. His right arm was still not at full operating capacity, and although he was willing to join Angel for this fight, he wasn't likely to offer much in the way of assistance. Rather, his mission was to get Wesley out of the room as quickly as humanly possible, while Angel distracted the psychotic super-villain in the center of it all. It was too bad Doyle wasn't up for the fight, not that he would've stood a chance against a slayer. But, even so, Doyle would have loved to hit her—or worse. After what she did to Cordelia, she deserved whatever she got. And he was certain Angel would give it to her good.

Assuming she didn't gain the upper hand and kill Angel. Because that would be decidedly bad.

Doyle had tuned out the banter that was going on between the two warriors, but he had been intently watching Wesley who was tied to a chair in between them. He knew what the Englishman was going to do a second before he did it. Which was to say, he kicked the chair backwards, so he landed on his back with a thud. Faith was left open, and Angel took the opening, spinning forward with a powerful kick.

The chaos that ensued thereafter was liable to bring the entire building down, nevermind warrant a pretty serious noise complaint. As the two powerhouses crashed into the glass coffee table across the room, Doyle seized the opportunity to amble to Wesley's side. He picked up a discarded butcher knife nearby and began working on Wesley's restraints.

"Doyle." Wesley groaned, sounding fairly out of it. The blood from his head dripped into his eyes, and Doyle did his best not to focus on Wesley's hideous injuries, and instead focus on not giving him any new ones.

"Yeah, Wesley, it's me. Just hang in there, bud. I'll have ya outta here in a jif." He said it more confidently than he felt, because by now the whirling dervish that was the vampire and the slayer had moved closer to their current location.

"She will kill him." Wesley mumbled through swollen lips.

"Not if he kills her first, yeah? Let's think positive-like." Doyle countered, finally getting somewhere with the rope. He would have it undone in just… one… more…

 _CRASH_

Doyle whirled around to see what remained of the large picture window after Angel tackled Faith through it. It was a two-story fall to the street below, which may have rendered one or both of them unconscious. Hopefully, if one of them was unconscious, it wasn't Angel. Doyle turned back to Wesley, carefully helping him into a sitting position.

"Think ya can walk outta here, man?" Doyle asked, not feeling all that convinced that he could.

Wesley picked up the large butcher knife Doyle had used on his bonds—it was anyone's guess what that knife had been used for earlier in the evening, but Doyle could see traces of blood in the grooves. Wesley started to lift himself, trying to stand. "We have to… help him."

Doyle nodded, using his good arm to help Wesley stand all the way up. The injured pair stumbled over to the broken window to see Faith waling on Angel on the street below. The skies had opened up quite suddenly, and rain was now pouring down on them. From Doyle's current vantage point, it didn't look like Angel was doing much to fight back—taking blow after blow.

"We'd better hurry." Doyle said, urging Wesley toward the doorway, and continuing down the two flights of stairs that led to street level. It was unimaginable to think that either he or Wesley would be much help to Angel under the circumstances, but if they were all going to die at Faith's hands, they had to at least try and take her down with them.

As they got to the doorway that led to the storm outside, Wesley paused, handing the large knife to Doyle and bracing himself against the wall. The message was clear, Wesley couldn't bring any fight, but Doyle could at least bring something. Although the poison still lingered in his bloodstream, it was possible he could morph into his demon form long enough to at least provide a non-lethal distraction. Non-lethal, was preferable, but he feared unlikely.

He opened the door and stepped out into the rain, and what he saw caused him to drop the knife at his feet. Wesley leaned in the doorway behind him, jaw dropping open in surprise.

Faith was no longer fighting. Instead, she was sobbing. Clinging to Angel. Begging for him to kill her. As she collapsed to her knees, she pulled Angel down with her, and the two knelt on the pavement in the pouring rain. Angel's arms were wrapped around her then, and he soothed her as if she was a small child waking from a terrible nightmare.

Angel's words carried between the raindrops. "Shh. It's all right. It's okay. I'm here. I'm right here. Shh…"

* * *

The water flowed over his head, down his chest and made its way to the drain below, taking with it the blood, sweat and tears of the day. The blood belonged to Wesley, having been left behind when Doyle helped the other man out of his bonds and brought him for medical attention. The sweat had been from the stress and fear of very nearly losing this battle. The tears had been for Cordelia—for a few minutes, he'd thought he'd lost her. None of that would ever really wash away. How could it?

Doyle reached out and twisted the knob, cutting off the water flow. He then stepped out of the shower, toweled himself off and made a small streak in the mirror to see his battered reflection. His right eye was nearly swollen shut, and already heavily bruised. His right shoulder actually felt marginally better—the radiating numbness had subsided at any rate. The wound itself was still painful, but he'd regained the use of the lower half of his right arm, leading him to believe the poison had nearly worked its way out of his system.

The physical pain was easy to brush off. Faith had done far worse when she nearly drowned Cordelia. The terrifying minutes he'd spent thinking Cordelia was dead were the worst he'd experienced… well, since the last time he'd thought she was dead on the Quintessa. Only this time was worse, because she was _his_ now. She was his love; she was his life. Every moment that she had spent not breathing, he had breathed for her. He would have never stopped. He would have kept going until he had no more breath in his body to give her. And even that probably wouldn't have stopped him.

Then her eyes had opened, and she had breathed on her own and for a split second—he felt pure joy. She was alive; that was all he needed. Except her eyes were clouded with anger at being made a victim once again. They were clouded by hate. He felt like it was his job to seek retribution on her behalf—to wrap his own hands around Faith's throat and squeeze the breath out of her the way she'd drowned the breath out of Cordelia. It was the least he could do, as the man who loved her—who couldn't imagine a life without her.

For that reason, it had been difficult to come home and tell Cordelia what had actually transpired. To tell her that instead of lying in a pool of her own blood, Faith was most likely lying in Angel's bed. Warm and dry and safe.

Not that Doyle didn't believe in redemption; Lord knows, he did. He had to for Angel's sake, not to mention his own. But, that didn't make it any easier to watch Angel coddle a murderer and bring her home to his apartment to protect and help her. It wasn't something that sat well with Wesley, and it sure as hell didn't sit well with Cordelia either. Doyle might have been okay with it under different circumstances. Circumstances that didn't include Faith nearly killing his girlfriend.

As it was, he was emphatically team Cordelia and Wesley.

Naturally, Cordelia had been waiting up for him, worried out of her mind. Looking so small and delicate in one of his shirts—the pale green long-sleeve that was a favorite of his, and hers apparently. Despite the circumstances, he loved coming home to find her there. He loved knowing that after he finished showering and slid into his bed, he'd be able to pull her warm body close to his and kiss her soft skin and smell her perfumed hair.

He slipped on a clean pair of boxers, and flipped off the bathroom light, heading into the dark room where she waited. He wasn't sure if she was awake or asleep—she'd looked exhausted when he'd stumbled in, which is why he'd insisted she go directly to bed while he washed up. The rhythmic pattern of her breathing told him that she probably had fallen asleep. That was fine, he had no energy to do much more than hold her anyway.

Doyle slid under the covers on the side of the bed closest to the bathroom door. There wasn't much bed to begin with, so he didn't have to search hard to find her in the darkness. He slid an arm around her waist, spooning her from behind and placing a tender kiss into the thick waves of dark hair. He was so relieved to have her there that he knew he was holding her extra tight. She may have sensed that, or she had simply not been as asleep as he assumed. Either way, she surprised him by rolling toward him and snuggling up under his chin. He kept his arms wrapped around her all the while.

"Goodnight, Doyle." She murmured sleepily into his chest.

"Goodnight, Princess." He replied, letting himself fall asleep slowly, relishing the fact they were both safe in each other's arms.


	37. Sanctuary, Pt 1

**"Sanctuary," Part I**

Doyle poured himself a second cup of coffee—he'd made it himself, which meant it was actually drinkable this morning. After the night they'd all had, copious amounts of coffee would be a necessity. He eyed the box of donuts he'd left on Cordelia's desk, wondering if Angel wouldn't mind him snagging one for himself. Not like Faith could eat them all... or maybe she could. Maybe she ate the same way she did everything else—to the extreme.

Angel brushed through the doorway from his office, and made a beeline for the donuts. "You got jelly?" He asked, peeking into the box to inspect the merchandise.

"And good mornin' to you, too." Doyle commented dryly. "There's a whole selection. Sure that'll hit the spot after a rough night of torture and attempted murder."

"Thanks." Angel replied, ignoring Doyle's remarks. The front door swung open, causing both of them to abruptly raise their heads in that direction. Doyle was more than a little surprised to see his fellow coworker enter; he'd figured he was the only one foolish enough to show up for work while a psychotic slayer was walking free on the premises. He almost hadn't, but Angel had called and asked him to pick up donuts on the way in.

"Wesley, man, I didn't think you'd be in today." Doyle greeted him. "Now that's dedication—and a missed opportunity to take a sick day, I might add. How ya feeling?"

"Like I was tortured. You?" Wesley replied unceremoniously, then turned to Angel to give him a reserved greeting. "Angel."

"Wesley." Angel replied in turn. "I'm glad you're feeling...um, glad you're here."

"I assume _she's_ still here."

"She got the bed." Doyle remarked as an aside, leaning his back against the shelf that held the coffee maker. "Now she's gettin' donuts."

Angel shot a dirty look in Doyle's direction that clearly indicated he wasn't helping to diffuse the situation. Which was fine with Doyle, since he wasn't looking to diffuse anything. He may understand why Angel felt the need to help Faith, but it didn't mean Doyle approved of her getting the royal treatment.

"I'm sure she'll find it difficult to enjoy the donuts, whilst she's bound and gagged, as one would assume." Wesley replied evenly.

"Guys, we went through this last night—" Angel began.

"Yes, yes, the police are ill-equipped to hold a slayer against her will. We both understand that part. What I don't understand is why the woman who brutally tortured me and nearly killed Cordelia gets to enjoy pastries this morning." Wesley's volume didn't increase, but the edge in his voice got sharper. Doyle was impressed, to say the least. He'd never heard Wesley stand up to anyone the way he was standing up to Angel this morning. Too bad it took being tortured to prove that the former-Watcher had a backbone. "Speaking of which, where is Cordelia? Is she doing alright?"

"I don't want her anywhere near that crazy bitch." Doyle blurted. "Thankfully, she agrees with me on that point. She's stayin' at my place for now, but I'm thinking she should go ahead and take that vacation Angel promised her."

"I think that would be wise." Wesley agreed, sympathy evident in his tortured eyes.

"You can go with her." Angel piped up from across the room. He looked reluctant to make the offer. "If you want. All of you can go... I don't expect anyone else to help."

Doyle shifted his gaze away from Angel and down toward his scuffed up shoes. It was a tempting offer, to be sure. "There's nothing I'd rather do than watch Cordelia lounge around in a bikini, but then who'd be here to scare all the non-existent clients away?" He said, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. "I'll stay—and I'll probably never hear the end of it, for that matter."

Angel nodded gratefully in reply and then turned his eyes toward Wesley, silently asking the same question. Wesley stood his ground. "I believe in helping people, Angel. You know that." He said earnestly. "But I don't believe in coddling murderers... there is evil in that girl. You set her free, she will kill again!"

Wesley's voice had slowly become louder and more unraveled as the words spilled from his swollen lips, and it was clear that he would never be okay with Faith's continued presence in the same building.

"She has a soul..." Angel argued in a subdued tone.

"I'd say that's debatable." Wesley snipped back.

Angel's unwillingness to bend, was apparently Wesley's last straw. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod toward Doyle before turning on his heel and exiting the front door, letting it slam loudly behind him. The silence he left in his wake was deafening and Doyle found himself unable to meet the eyes of the only other occupant of the room. Instead, he drank deeply from his coffee mug and pretended things weren't as awkward as they were.

"He'll come around." Angel's voice broke the silence.

"Ah... I dunno 'bout that." Doyle pondered, swirling the last remaining dregs of his coffee at the bottom of his mug. "Being sadistically tortured has a way of sticking with a person. Don't know that I'd feel any different if I were in Wesley's shoes. As it is, I'm not looking to go down there and pal around with the girl. If you're looking for someone to hold her head in a toilet, that's an area where I can be helpful..."

"I need you here, Doyle." Angel admitted abruptly, letting his usual veil of confidence slip ever so slightly. "I know this isn't easy for you after what she did to Cordelia, but you know this path, you know how it works. I do this wrong and Wesley will be right—she will kill again. But, I know she doesn't want to."

"Because she has a soul." Doyle repeated Angel's plea from moments earlier. "And you're _so_ sure she wants it to be saved, yeah?"

"I am." Angel declared with conviction.

Doyle placed the mug down on the counter beside him and finally looked up to meet Angel's gaze. "I guess we're the right guys for the job, then."

* * *

Doyle swung open the door to his apartment, and nearly tripped over the mound of laundry near the front doorway. He kicked it out of the way, wishing not for the first time that his place was a little more presentable for female company. There was a reason why he spent most nights at Cordelia's place—mostly because, aside from the first night she had come there and now when she was forced into hiding, she generally refused to step foot in the place.

Not that he could blame her. He wasn't all that keen about stepping foot in the place either.

He found Cordelia on the sofa flipping through a magazine she must've ventured across the street to the 7-11 to purchase. Hopefully, she had been wearing something other than one of his t-shirts and a pair of boxers, which is what she was wearing now. They looked every bit as sexy on her as the pale green button-down had. He probably should just give her all his clothes, since she wore them far better than he did. Granted, if he did give them to her, she'd probably just have a giant bonfire on her front lawn. She was only wearing his clothes now because she had nothing else, aside from the clothes that had been on her back when she fled from her apartment the previous evening.

She looked up from the magazine and he could see the boredom etched across her face. "So, what's the deal? Can we go or what? I still need to swing by my place and pack, assuming Faith won't be flying the coop in the next hour."

Earlier that morning, Doyle had encouraged her to continue with her grand plan of getting out of town for a few days. What he had neglected to mention was that he probably wouldn't be joining her. A fact that he wasn't looking forward to clarifying. He pulled out the checks he had stuffed in his pocket, deciding to lead with the one thing that would make her happy— _money_. "I have a surprise for ya, love— I was able to twist the arm of our incredibly frugal boss and get you a proper paid vacation." He presented her with the checks wearing a wide grin. "There ya go. All made out in your name."

She took the checks from his hand and glanced over them with mild disinterest. "Wow." She said unenthusiastically. "You must've twisted his arm hard."

Doyle cleared his throat nervously, sensing the disapproval bubbling right under the surface. His distraction technique hadn't been nearly has distracting as he'd hoped. "Ah… well, not as hard as all that. He feels bad for what happened."

"Do you have your own checks?" She asked with a blank expression. "I don't see your name on any of these."

Cordelia's eyes drilled holes into him and he shifted his weight, not even pretending that he was going to give her the answer she wanted. "I can't go with ya, darlin'."

"You mean, you _won't_ go with me." She amended, tossing the magazine aside and standing up from the couch to get closer to his face. "You'd rather stay with Angel and that leather-clad psycho!"

"It's not a matter of preference." He contended. "I'd _rather_ go with you, but I can't leave Angel alone with all this. Saving Faith's soul is important to him—I think ya can guess why, yeah?"

He could see that she was having an internal debate with herself. Part of her wanted to rip into him and the other part had no more fight left. She landed somewhere in between. "I know why he wants to help her. It's what he does. And I know why you want to stay with him. It's what _you_ do." She wore a scowl, but reached out for his hand anyway. "But what if she slips on her way up redemption hill, huh? I don't want her to _slip_ a butcher knife into your chest… or worse."

"What's worse than that?!" He exclaimed. Her cutting look told him in no uncertain terms what she considered worse than him being stabbed in the heart. "Ah… Cordy, if you're worrying about _that_ … well, that's never gonna happen. Ya hear me?" He pulled her close to him, and planted a tender kiss on her forehead. "Just you worry about having yourself some R&R and I'll be here, counting the hours 'til ya get back."

She rested her head on his chest and mumbled into his shirt. "You better remain in one piece, or I'll never forgive you."

* * *

When Doyle returned to the office, he wasn't surprised to find Angel Investigations closed for business. He could've unlocked the front door and answered the phone himself, but it's not like he planned on taking any cases. Angel had his hands full, Wesley probably wouldn't be coming back anytime soon, and Cordelia was hopefully halfway to Laguna Beach by now. That only left Doyle, and while he liked to think his detective skills were more than adequate, he hadn't stuck around to keep the business running. He'd stuck around for Angel. Which meant, he had to stop stalling and actually go downstairs.

He really wasn't looking forward to going downstairs.

Doyle took the elevator down, which was the slowest possible way he could have chosen to descend. As he got closer to the bottom, he heard the erratic staccato of popping kernels and the strong smell of popcorn wafted into his nostrils.

That bitch was eating his popcorn!

Okay, so it was technically Wesley's popcorn, seeing how the Englishman had bought it and placed it in Angel's cupboard, but Doyle helped himself to it often enough that it felt like his property. First she got donuts and now she got Wesley's popcorn. What next? Was Angel going to give her Doyle's very best Scotch?

There'd definitely be hell to pay if she got the Scotch.

As Doyle exited the elevator he was faced with an anxious brunette pacing in front of the rapidly-popping microwave—her nervous energy flowed through the air like an electrical current. She raised her head as he entered the doorway, and she abruptly stopped pacing and stood at alert. She shifted nervously from one foot to the other without saying a word, a far cry from the over-confident predator he'd faced in Cordelia's apartment. For the first time since he'd met the _other_ slayer, Doyle could see how young this girl was. Younger than Cordelia—she should still be in high school, most likely. Assuming she'd ever gone in the first place. The microwave behind her beeped several times, indicating that it was done; a few last minute kernels popped sporadically inside the machine. Faith didn't flinch.

"Where's Angel?" Doyle asked, folding his arms and leaning in the doorway. He was careful not to venture past the threshold of the kitchen. He preferred remaining in a separate room from her for as long as possible. Mostly because he was afraid once they actually shared a room that he'd cave into the desire to throttle her, which would probably only result in further injury to his own person. Never in his life had he wanted to physically harm a woman, and the only thing that gave him solace in this case, was that the woman in question—girl, rather – was far stronger than he was; stronger than Angel even.

"I'm here." Angel replied coming out of his bedroom and brushing past Doyle to walk into the kitchen. As Faith continued to stand awkwardly and stare at Doyle, half ashamed and half sizing him up. Angel retrieved the popcorn from the microwave, pulled a large bowl from one of the cabinets, and proceeded to pour the popcorn into the bowl. As he worked, he tossed an official introduction over his shoulder. "Faith, I don't know if you and Doyle have been properly introduced. He works for me." Angel finished filling the bowl, turned around. "He knows a thing or two about atonement, which is why I asked him to come down here."

"Lucky you." Faith mumbled acerbically.

Angel pushed the bowl of popcorn into her arms, and gave a little nod in Doyle's direction. "Why don't you try that thing we talked about? You can start with Doyle."

"But, I don't even know him." She objected. Doyle started to feel like he wasn't really standing there at all. He was merely a prop to be used to teach this girl a lesson, apparently. Angel communicated something back to her using only his eyes and she sighed heavily, dropping her eyes into the bowl of popcorn she now hugged to her body. "Right." She muttered to herself, and then raised her eyes so that they fell somewhere toward the middle of Doyle's body. Certainly nowhere near his eyes. "I'm supposed to do the apology-thing, but it's kinda new to me. I don't know what to say."

Doyle narrowed his eyes at her, trying to decipher whether or not he believed there was any shred of remorse aching inside her. Her words thus far had been unconvincing to say the least. "Apologies usually have the words 'I'm sorry' somewhere in there." He critiqued. "Also helps if ya try and sound like ya mean it."

Angel placed a hand on her shoulder in a show of support. "Go ahead."

"I'm sorry." She said without inflection. It didn't sound terribly convincing. "Are we done now?"

"That was a pretty poor excuse for an apology." Doyle acknowledged, not willing to let her off that easily. She didn't know him—had no reason to care whether or not he hated her. Although, he suspected that Angel's approval was something she very much wanted, and she could plainly see that Doyle was someone Angel held in high regard. All this made the act of apologizing to Doyle matter more to her than it should. At least, that was the working theory. "Maybe if ya got a little more specific, it'd help. You can start with some of the more minor offenses and we'll just work our way up to the part where ya almost murdered the woman I love."

Faith blanched at his words, and he saw the fear that pooled in her eyes right before they dropped right back into her bowl of popcorn.

"It won't change anything." She sulked, and that time, Doyle thought she sounded convincingly regretful. Well, that was a start. She may not feel any particular need to apologize to him, but it did sound like she was ashamed of what she'd done. Perhaps, there was a soul in this girl worth saving after all.

Angel had dropped his eyes to the floor, keeping his hand on Faith's shoulder. He remained silent, not taking sides between the two of them. He had asked Doyle to help with Faith's rehabilitation and he seemed willing to let Doyle do whatever he thought necessary to help in that regard, no matter how antagonistic it may seem. Doyle, for one, wasn't going to avoid the rather large elephant in the room. If he was going to help this girl, she had to understand what atonement was all about.

"No, it's not gonna change a thing." Doyle agreed, taking some of the bite out of his voice. "Apologizing isn't about erasing your sins, it's about acknowledging 'em. You do it 'cause ya want forgiveness, but ya can't expect it."

"I don't expect it." She confessed, intently studying the kernels of popcorn in the bowl. He watched as she swallowed heavily and licked her lips, lifting her head almost defiantly this time, responding to his words. "I'm sorry for messing with you." She said. "For coming on to you and stuff… in front of Cordelia."

Angel and Doyle both furrowed their brows in unison, and exchanged an incredulous look. Doyle cocked his head in Faith's direction. " _That's_ what you're sorry about?" He asked in disbelief. "Not the whole poisoned arrow in the shoulder or the fact that I can't see outta my right eye?!"

"You said to start with the minor stuff." She pointed out hesitantly. "Figured that was, like, the least offensive thing I've done since I got here."

Doyle almost had to laugh at that. "Ah…you've got me there." He replied, shifting his weight. "Wanna try for something else?"

"Yeah, okay." She said, seeming to get the hang of it now that the ice had been broken. "I'm also sorry for trying to break your eye socket with my fist."

"That's a bit better." Doyle supposed, shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation. "And once the swelling goes down I may even forgive ya that one."

Angel gave Doyle a grateful half-smile and patted Faith on the back. "Good. That's good. Why don't you go eat your popcorn?"

Faith nodded obediently, looking relieved to be off the hook. She gave Doyle a wide berth as she passed through the doorway. Only when she had passed him and gone into the other room did she hesitantly speak up once again. "Uh, Doyle…." She paused and he imagined she was biting her lip again. He twisted himself around to face her, confirming that he was correct about the lip-biting thing. "I'm, um…y'know… _glad_ Cordelia's okay. I mean, I didn't want her dead. And… I think I'd be _real_ sorry if I'd killed her."

Doyle stared at her long and hard. In that moment, he thought he probably saw what Angel saw in her—the lost little girl who didn't know how to relate to people, didn't know how to cope. He could see that she meant what she was saying, even though she'd said it all wrong. Cordelia certainly wasn't "okay" and being hypothetically, possibly sorry if Cordelia had died wasn't really an apology at all, and yet somehow, this unscripted, unrehearsed and unplanned non-apology actually made much more of an impact than her previous attempts. Doyle saw why Angel wanted to help her, and God help him, he was pretty sure he wanted to help her, too.

"Ya did kill her. You should be sorry for that." Doyle said in a low voice, laced with warning. "Just 'cause I brought her back, doesn't absolve ya of that one."

Faith didn't flinch, but he could see that wasn't quite the response she was expecting. She turned away again and made her way toward the living room, sinking onto the couch with her bowl of popcorn. Doyle turned back to Angel, who was still wearing his grateful face. "I told you, you're good at this."

Doyle walked the rest of the way into the kitchen, leaning against one of the empty chairs. "Once upon a time I was pretty good at talking to kids. But, I don't imagine that kid's been an _actual_ kid for a long time, yeah?"

"That's part of the problem." Angel agreed. "I don't think she ever had a childhood. Even before she was a slayer."

Doyle absorbed that, placing that puzzle piece into the rapidly forming picture of Faith in his mind. She was one screwed up girl. The anger and violence were symptoms of her illness, not the illness itself. Doyle couldn't help but feel the compassion broiling within him—he knew what it was like to be angry. He knew what it was like to carry around so much self-hate that it felt like a physical weight. He knew what it was like to feel unforgiven.

"Ah… there's that little TV upstairs. Maybe I should bring it down here for the girl." Doyle suggested, cheating a glance over his shoulder at her sifting the popcorn through her fingers. "I'm thinking boredom's not good for her."

"That's a good idea." Angel agreed. "Think she'll be okay by herself for a few minutes? I really need a shower."

Doyle shrugged as he moved to exit the kitchen. "If she can't make it for five minutes, she has very little hope of making it the rest of her life." With that he headed upstairs to make sure the devil's hands didn't remain idle for too long.


	38. Sanctuary, Pt 2

**"Sanctuary," Part II**

Doyle sat as far away from Faith on the long couch as humanly possible, watching as she incessantly flipped through the channels. Her anxiety was giving him anxiety, and he found it hard not to bounce his leg up and down to release some of it. He also started thinking about where he'd hidden his bottles of whiskey down here in Angel's apartment. He had at least two. Granted, as much as Angel trusted Doyle's rehabilitation methods, Doyle very much doubted he'd approve of alcohol entering the equation.

"You want some popcorn?" Faith asked offhandedly, still clicking through channels without pausing long enough to see what was on any of them.

"No, thanks." Doyle replied, blinking at the rapidly passing images on the small TV set. "Think maybe ya could pick one channel there on the telly? I'm getting a bit sea sick from all the waves."

She wordlessly acquiesced by pausing on a news program. It only took about thirty seconds for Doyle to deeply regret suggesting that she stop flipping.

 _"_ _Los Angeles police in conjunction with Federal authorities are looking for this woman tonight, a felony suspect from the California town of Sunnydale."_

It was Faith's photograph that appeared behind the over-coiffed news anchor.

Doyle watched her out of the corner of his eye and saw her reach for the drink she had on the small table beside her. She wasn't paying attention and he watched in slow-motion as she carelessly knocked it over, sending it crashing to the floor. All the while the news anchor's voice continued to enthrall her.

 _"_ _The young woman has fled to Los Angeles in recent days. Eyewitnesses identified her as being involved in several recent assaults. Police want your help in finding her."_

"Faith, we all knew about this, yeah?" Doyle said quietly, shifting slightly closer to her on the couch.

Angel hurried into the room, reacting to the sound of the broken glass. He was soaking wet, still pulling on his pants and holding them in place as he ran; a towel was slung over his shoulder. "What is it? What happened?"

Doyle gestured wordlessly to Faith's picture on the small screen before them, where her eyes were still glued in terror. Angel crouched down beside her, placing his arm around her shoulders. His voice was soothing as he tried to talk her back down off the ledge. "It's okay. Nothing's changed."

Doyle turned back to the TV as Kate's image flashed on the screen, speaking at a press conference earlier in the day. A few months ago it might have been a blessing if Kate had picked up the case, but now it probably was closer to the opposite. There was no way they could go to Kate with the truth now, not after what had happened with her father and how much she blamed Angel for it.

"You're safe here." Angel's voice was the last thing Doyle heard, before a large blurry object dropped from the ceiling crashing right on top of the three of them.

It was some unidentifiable demon, and who the hell knew where it came from or how it got in there without any of them sensing it. There wasn't much time to contemplate those things as Doyle felt himself get hurled across the room, hitting the brick wall with enough force to bring his demon to the surface involuntarily. He crumbled to the floor in a heap and watched as the thing sent Angel hurling in the other direction and focused squarely on its intended target, which was Faith.

Doyle stood up and was about to shake off his demon, when he saw the thing toss Faith onto the couch like a rag doll, sending both her and it tumbling backwards. Rather than morphing back into his human form, he charged, tackling the demon-assassin from the side and giving Angel a chance to right himself and shepherd Faith to the relative safety of the kitchen. Doyle was easily discarded for a second time, crashing into the TV set and landing on the floor underneath it—his body uncontrollably phasing once more. His human form didn't take blows nearly as well and he found it impossible to get back up. He heard the sounds of the continued altercation as he clung to consciousness by a thread…

Maybe he had blacked out for a few minutes—he wasn't entirely sure how much time had gone by since he'd been knocked to the floor. But he vaguely heard Faith's voice crying out "No!" and the clang of something metal hitting the floor tiles. He slowly lifted a hand to his eyes trying to rub the blurriness out of them. He heard someone groan audibly, and he was fairly certain it was himself.

From his place on the floor, he saw two blurry shapes moving from the kitchen toward the bedroom, and Angel's soft soothing tones carried across the room. It took Doyle another minute or two before he could slowly pull himself into a sitting position. He remained in the heap of what used to be the TV set, blinking until his vision came back into focus. He had to assume that last blow had caused at least a mild concussion, which is why it took him several seconds to notice that he was no longer alone in the room. A small, familiar-looking blonde was standing above him, looking more than a little concerned.

Buffy, his confused brain registered. Buffy was there.

She offered a hand to help him up off the floor, and he took it willingly, startled by the strength that pulled him upwards to his unsteady feet. "Doyle, right?" She asked in a fairly business-like manner. "Are you okay? Where's Angel?"

Doyle vaguely pointed toward the bedroom, raising a hand to his aching head. Buffy was several steps ahead of him, but he noticed that she came up short the moment she stepped into the bedroom doorway. He had been shuffling along behind her, and he too had to stop short to avoid crashing into her, but by that point he could see what she was seeing, and admittedly, it looked bad.

Angel, still only half-dressed, was holding a distraught and bloody-handed Faith against his bare chest. If Doyle hadn't known what happened only moments earlier, he probably would've thought the same thing Buffy was quite obviously thinking right now. Especially since Angel had a decidedly guilty look in his eyes as he raised them to meet that of his ex-girlfriend. "Buffy. I didn't know you—"

"How… What are you doing?" Buffy asked, very clearly horrified by the incriminating scene before her. Angel stood up, and Doyle could see that his pants were still unzipped. That _definitely_ didn't look good.

Angel finally noticed as well; he zipped them almost as an afterthought as he stepped forward to address Buffy. "She—we were attacked."

"We?" She bit back, "You and Faith."

"And Doyle." Angel added. Buffy, for the first time since she'd looked into the bedroom, seemed to remember that there was someone else present, and standing silently behind her. She turned her distressed and bewildered eyes briefly in Doyle's direction.

"Ah… that's not what you're thinking it is." Doyle offered hesitantly, gesturing to the misleading scene in Angel's bedroom. It was the least he could do on his friend's behalf, although, Doyle found himself empathizing with Buffy far more than he let on.

"Not what I think?" Buffy echoed Doyle's words as if they were in a foreign language. She then turned her intense eyes back on Angel who had grabbed a shirt and was now hastily buttoning it as he moved closer to the doorway. "I can't really form a thought right now." She said, her voice trembling a bit underneath the coldness. "Giles told me she tried to kill you."

"That's true." Angel confirmed. "She tried to poison me, like she did before. Doyle took the hit instead."

"Well, good thing Doyle's such a good friend." Buffy scoffed. "Or you wouldn't still be here to punish Faith with a severe cuddling!" Her simmering rage was rapidly coming to a boil, but the pain in her voice was still the most vividly apparent emotion. "I came because I was worried about you!"

Doyle took a sizable step back, suddenly feeling like he was intruding on something he really shouldn't be a part of. He had thought his presence might diffuse the situation, but that didn't seem possible. Nothing would diffuse this—suddenly Doyle understood exactly what Cordelia had meant when she had warned him about Hurricane Buffy.

As Faith stepped out from behind Angel, Doyle knew it was only bound to get worse. Much, much worse.

"Buffy." Faith's ragged voice sounded so different than it had when she had addressed Doyle earlier in the day. There wasn't a single trace of the haughty teen who wasn't sure why she had to apologize, or if she even wanted to. The girl he saw now, was the very picture of contrite. "Oh, God. I'm sor—"

"Apologize to me and I will beat you to death!" Buffy interrupted venomously. Doyle hoped to hell Faith would keep her mouth shut, or he had no doubt Buffy would make good on that particular threat. Apologizing to Doyle for the physical damage was one thing, but the wounds Faith had inflicted upon her fellow slayer clearly went much deeper.

Faith's mumbled reply of "Go ahead" was barely audible as Angel protectively stepped in front of her, and faced off against Buffy. "This isn't going to happen. Buffy, you and I are going to talk. Doyle, take Faith upstairs."

"Like hell, I'm letting her leave my sight!" Buffy fired back, fully blocking the doorway despite her tiny frame. Doyle was frozen in place, not exactly relishing the thought of defying Buffy's wishes. Of course, when push came to shove, his loyalty was to Angel.

He really hoped push wouldn't come to shove, though. Buffy looked like she would shove _hard_.

"There's nothing to talk about here. _Jail_ , that's the only offer." Buffy declared. "After what she did to me, she should be glad she's getting that much."

"That isn't the way to handle this." Angel argued back. "Faith, go upstairs with Doyle."

"Faith, don't you dare move!" Buffy yelled, pointing a warning finger at her fellow slayer. "What are you gonna do, Angel? You gonna stop me from turning her in? Because you're gonna have to."

"Faith, go now." Angel ordered again, raising his voice. This time Faith shuffled a few inches toward the door, which caused Buffy to lurch forward to physically stop her. What happened next was almost too fast for Doyle to register. Angel grabbed Buffy's arm to stop her from reaching Faith, resulting in Buffy hauling out and punching Angel in the face. And he hit her back, which stopped the presses completely.

Doyle saw the horrified expression on his friend's face—it was only rivaled by the one Buffy wore.

Faith sidled up beside Doyle, having finally navigated her way past the dueling exes. Doyle didn't have to hear Angel's tightly ordered command of, "Doyle, Faith, go." He took Faith gently by the forearm and guided her toward the staircase that led to Angel's office. Whatever was about to transpire between Buffy and Angel was nobody's business. Not Faith's and certainly not Doyle's.

He urged Faith up the stairs, taking them two at a time himself, praying he wouldn't hear any more blows emanate from the apartment below him.

* * *

Doyle sat on the edge of Angel's desk watching Faith who paced beside the large exterior window. She paused, toying with one of the blinds before picking up the rapid movement again.

"Hey." He said, breaking the tense silence between them. "For what it's worth—what happened down there wasn't your fault. Just a case of really poor timing, that's all."

"Yeah, when mom and dad fight—it's never about the kids, is it?" She muttered, finally pacing away from the window. "Except when it is."

"Okay, so technically, they're fighting over you… still… " Doyle shrugged, not sure why he was bothering to try and make her feel better about any of this. "Not your fault that Buffy jumped to the wrong conclusions and all that. If you're gonna be feeling guilty, might as well keep the feelings pointed in the right direction, yeah?"

"I slept with her boyfriend." Faith admitted abruptly, causing Doyle's eyebrows to shoot skyward. "Not Angel, obviously. The new guy, back in Sunnydale."

"Oh." Doyle replied dumbly. Well, that certainly explained a thing or two about the other slayer's reaction. "Well, ah… why'd ya do that?"

Faith turned to level him with a look of both surprise and confusion. "What?" She asked, as if she hadn't heard him properly.

"I'm asking why you'd do a thing like that to a girl you once considered a friend?" Doyle repeated. "Ya were friends at one point, weren't ya?"

"Are you serious?" She questioned. "After everything else I've done, does it really matter why I'd sleep with someone else's boyfriend? I've slept with a lotta _someone else's boyfriends_ —never really stopped to ask, in most cases."

"I'm serious. Ya gonna make me ask it a third time?" Doyle responded, waiting patiently for her to actually give the question some thought. "And, for the record, I'm not asking why you'd sleep with someone else's boyfriend, I'm asking why you'd sleep with _Buffy's_ , specifically."

Faith turned away from him, wandering over to the far end of the office and then turning back in his direction so she could lean her back against the wall. He could see the wheels turning as she considered the question and, perhaps, found that the answer was already there on the tip of her tongue.

She opened her mouth to answer and then promptly shut it again, keeping her lips pushed together tightly.

"It's okay, Faith." Doyle encouraged. "You can say it. I won't tell anyone, not even Angel."

Her eyes slowly moved up to meet his and she must have trusted what she saw, because she opened her mouth for a second time. This time the words came. "I want what she has."

Doyle nodded; Faith's words confirmed every suspicion he had about the girl. "Buffy has it all, yeah? Nice family, loyal friends, a boyfriend who loves her. And, on top of all that, she gets to be the big hero."

"Yeah." Faith admitted, almost smiling as Doyle's empathy connected with a part of her that she probably didn't even know was yearning to be understood. "I'm just the evil twin…. Which basically blows."

"Not evil." Doyle corrected. "Maybe just not as lucky in the hand that's been dealt to ya."

From her reaction, he could see that he'd hit the proverbial nail on the head, and he was almost a little worried that she was going to cross the room and throw her arms around him the way she'd done repeatedly with Angel. He was glad he could connect with the girl, but he wasn't looking to make that connection physical at any point. Perhaps it was something left over from when he was a teacher, but when trying to teach someone a lesson, there were some boundaries that shouldn't be breached. Luckily, Faith kept her back pushed up against the wall and simply gave him a smile—the most genuine one he'd seen her wear since he'd met her. It made her look like a sweet kid, rather than a fugitive from the law.

"Angel was right." Faith said, holding Doyle's gaze. "You're real good at this."

Doyle tilted his head in mild surprise. "Angel told ya that?"

"He told _you_ that." She amended, and then gave him an apologetic shrug. "Slayer-hearing."

"Right." Doyle agreed.

"So… what are you anyway?" She asked, as her face lit up with curiosity. "Those spikes were wicked cool. Do they pop up _everywhere_? That could get kinda kinky."

His jaw unhinged slightly at her question. If he took her meaning properly—and he had no doubt that he did—it was a hell of a loaded question. He felt himself blush, as he stammered a reply. "Not everywhere, no…"

The opening and closing of the outer office door put a final punctuation on that inappropriate stream of thought. The words died on Doyle's lips and they both waited expectantly for the visitor to show himself.

The visitor being Wesley, who was quite surprised to find Doyle and Faith casually hanging out in Angel's office. His facial expression was somewhat difficult to read behind all the bruises and swelling, but it was a good bet that he wasn't pleased. "Doyle… and Faith."

Faith was doing the lip-bite again and Doyle imagined that she was having an internal debate with herself about apologizing to Wesley—wondering whether or not it would merit a reaction similar to Buffy's. Granted, Buffy had been capable of making good on her threat, while Wesley was anything but.

"We have company." Doyle found himself explaining to the Brit. "Buffy's here and she and Angel are, uh… discussing the matter of how best to continue with Faith's rehabilitation."

"I see." Wesley replied, sliding his eyes over to the dark-haired girl who was suddenly very interested in the floorboards below her boots. "Well, we're going to have to interrupt their discussion."

"I don't think that's sucha wise idea, man." Doyle disagreed, getting up off the desk and shoving his hands into his back pockets as he stepped closer to Wesley. "They tend to discuss with their fists, if you're catching my meaning."

Wesley raised a brow at that, but it didn't cause him to hesitate in his reply. "Be that as it may, we are about to have more company, I'm afraid. And it's quite important that Angel, and Buffy for that matter, are alerted immediately."

"The Council?" Faith's fearful voice cut into Doyle and Wesley's conversation. The change in her demeanor was jarring. "You called them here." Her voice wasn't accusing; it was matter-of-fact, as if it made perfect sense that Wesley would have called them to come after her.

"I did no such thing." Wesley answered, keeping his voice even. "They contacted me, because they already knew you were here. I had to let them believe I'd help, or else I wouldn't be standing here right now."

"Yeah, well, I think ya were right the first time, we have to warn Angel." Doyle said, turning Wesley's focus back in his direction. "How long d'ya think we have before they storm the place or whatever it is they do?"

"I would imagine it's not long at all." Wesley replied, pulling a large, hypodermic needle out of his pocket. "Only as long as it would take me to incapacitate Faith with this tranquilizer."

"The tunnels." Doyle thought out loud. "We need to get to 'em right away. Faith—" He had turned back toward the place where Faith had been standing only moments earlier to find it was now empty. He swore under his breath as he made a beeline toward the stairs and proceeded down to Angel's apartment. He was pretty certain he wouldn't find Faith down there.

Things had definitely just gone from bad to worse.


	39. Sanctuary, Pt 3

**"Sanctuary," Part III**

"She ran. I told you she'd run again!" Buffy snapped.

"She didn't run." Angel argued. "I mean… she did, but only because something's chasing. She's probably heading to the roof."

Angel had been none too pleased to see Doyle and Wesley come down the stairs without Faith. And Buffy had very nearly taken off before Wesley could finish explaining that the Council's Operations team was about to raid the place. At least that had seemed to yank Buffy back to her less-vengeful senses—for all the anger she held toward Faith, she wasn't the type of person to let a human being be executed, no matter how severe their crimes.

"I'm going after her." Buffy asserted needlessly, giving Angel a glare that dared him to stop her.

"They may have it covered." He warned her in return, his meaning clear. Faith didn't need to be chased, she needed to be protected. Buffy gave him a tight nod before disappearing up the stairs.

"What's our plan here?" Doyle wondered, after she was gone.

"The tunnels are still the best option." Angel surmised. "We get out there, circle back around so we can take these guys by surprise."

"Angel…" Wesley said, stopping Angel for a moment and giving him direct eye contact. "I did this for your sake, not hers. It's you I trust. Just so we're clear."

"We're clear." Angel responded, as he turned to open the entrance to the sewer tunnels and dropped down inside. Machine gun fire from above, gave him pause. "That's coming from the roof."

"Ya need to get up there, man. Buffy and Faith are strong and fast, but they're not bullet proof." Doyle fretted. He was almost surprised to hear the amount of concern in his own voice. He didn't want to see either of the slayers taken out of the game—especially not the one he'd been working to save. The one he finally believed _could_ be saved. "Wesley and I can—"

Machine gun fire exploded from within the tunnel, filling the apartment and drowning out Doyle's words. All three of them were forced to take cover as one of the Council members emerged from the tunnel toting a machine gun in his right hand and a loaded crossbow in his left.

"Weatherby!" Wesley shouted from behind the sofa, where both he and Doyle had landed. Angel was several feet in the other direction, crouching behind the cage of the elevator. "Listen to reason!"

"Reason?!" The man addressed as Weatherby sneered. "A Watcher working for a vampire. It's perversion!"

"Weatherby…" Wesley called again, searching nearby for anything he might be able to use as a weapon. Doyle did the same, but found nothing within arm's reach aside from a throw pillow. That wasn't likely to be helpful under the circumstances.

"Do the sacred oaths you swore as a Watcher mean nothing to you now?" Weatherby demanded, keeping his arms crossed so that the machine gun was pointed in the direction of Wesley's voice and the crossbow stayed directed toward Angel's crouched figure. Although, Weatherby didn't have a clear shot at the moment, none of them could move without ending up in the direct line of his fire.

"As a matter of fact, they do." Wesley yelled back. "Faith was my charge, as you'll recall. And it is still my duty to protect her." Wesley leaned over to whisper to Doyle, knowing that Angel would also be able to hear with his enhanced hearing. "I'll distract him. You and Angel make a break for the stairs. Get to the roof."

"Angel goes." Doyle whispered back. "I'm staying here, man. No one on the team's getting left without backup, yeah?"

Doyle could see the reaction on Wesley's face, surprise, relief and a nod of approval. It had taken Doyle a long time to warm up to the other man, but they'd finally made it to a point where they considered themselves more than allies—they were friends. Certainly, they trusted each other, and Angel trusted them to protect each other, while he took their cue, leaping to the stairs and racing upward before Weatherby had a chance to do anything other launch a bolt into the doorframe.

Left alone, pinned behind Angel's sofa, Wesley spoke to Doyle once again, still maintaining his muted tone. "Would you object very strongly to using your demon form to create a distraction? If he turns the machine gun away from me, I do believe I can hit him with _this_." Wesley held up the large tranquilizer needle he'd shown Doyle when they were upstairs earlier.

"You're aim that good?" Doyle asked skeptically.

"I'm better at darts than I am with a gun." Wesley alleged by way of explanation. Doyle had already witnessed how well Wesley could aim a gun.

"Ah… Normally I would object quite strongly, but since ya asked so nice and all." Doyle replied, allowing the spikes to push up through his skin. "What are ya thinking I should do to draw his fire?"

"The wooden beam overhead… do you suppose you'd be able to reach it and swing yourself across the room, before he has time to fire?"

Doyle saw the beam in question and narrowed his eyes with uncertainty. "I can reach it, yeah. But, I'm not a monkey, or a gymnast, for that matter. Don't let the demon façade fool ya—I'm still not in the type of shape Angel is."

"Alright then." Wesley replied thoughtfully. "What _can_ you do that an average human being cannot?"

"Break my own neck." Doyle offered. "Not the most helpful of skills, I know, but I probably wouldn't be here without it. And, I can jump—higher, faster, further. Maybe I just aim for the kitchen, drop, roll and hope for the best, yeah?"

"That would work just as well." Wesley mused. "Just… don't get yourself shot, please."

"Don't intend to, bud." Doyle assured him. "Alright, on the count of three… two… one…"

Doyle leapt over the couch like a large cat, taking Weatherby by complete surprise with his faster-than-human speed. The Watcher's attempt to open fire, resulted in a brick wall full of bullet holes. Doyle landed in the doorway to the kitchen and rolled himself nimbly behind the wall. Weatherby fired in his direction, giving Wesley the opportunity to stand, aim and hit his target.

The large hypodermic needle plunged into the side of Weatherby's neck and within seconds the man dropped the gun to the floor and stood swaying unsteadily on his feet. Wesley vaulted over the overturned sofa and stomped toward Weatherby, punching him in the face and dropping him to the floor beside his gun. "Doyle, are you alright?"

Doyle stood up from his place in the kitchen, once again wearing his human face along with a broad grin. "Bull's-eye, mate. Game over."

* * *

Doyle pulled Angel's car into a parking space at the police station with a loud screech of the tires. Buffy was halfway out of the car even before he'd fully stopped the vehicle. Doyle and Wesley had to jog to catch up with her, and were just in time to see Kate remove a handcuffed Angel from the back of a squad car and march him up the front steps of the police station.

Kate had arrested him outside the Angel Investigations office building, apparently having been tipped off that he was aiding and abetting a known fugitive. Clearly Wolfram & Hart had been disappointed when Faith broke her arrangement with them—hence the assassin they sent to the apartment to kill her. When the more violent method failed, they must have decided to work within the confines of the law, ironically enough.

"I think you're gonna like the cell we have for you, Angel." Kate remarked facetiously. "It faces east. It'll give you a great view of the sunrise in about four hours."

"What?!" Buffy cried, trailing at their heels.

"Kate, hey… I think ya need to calm down and think about this for a minute. Angel's one of the good guys, remember." Doyle said, reaching out to place a hand on the policewoman's shoulder. She twisted out of his grasp violently, and came to a sudden halt, placing a warning finger in Doyle's face.

"If you touch me again, Doyle, you'll be in a cell right next to Angel's. Understood?"

"Yeah. I understand." He said, raising his hands in surrender and taking a step away from her, which sent him back down the small set of stairs.

Kate whirled back around and pushed Angel up the remaining steps toward the front entrance of the police station. Angel's voice called over his shoulder. "Buffy, Doyle… it's okay."

Doyle had stopped walking, letting Buffy continue trailing inside, lodging her protests against Kate's knowledge of Angel's vampire status and what she planned to do with said knowledge. Wesley paused at the front door, giving Doyle a questioning look.

Doyle waved Wesley inside, pulling a pack of cigarette from his pocket and waving them in the air. "Go on in. I'll be there in a minute."

Wesley accepted that and disappeared into the police station, leaving Doyle to feed his nasty habit. Although it wasn't his nicotine addiction that had given him pause.

Doyle strolled back to the parking lot with purpose, wondering if his eyes had deceived him. As he walked, he tapped two cigarettes out of his pack. One he placed over his ear and the other he held loosely between his fingers. Once he was close enough to confirm what he'd thought he saw, he smiled to himself and walked over to lean on the trunk of Angel's car. There, he pulled out his lighter, lit his cigarette and waited.

Faith came out of the shadows and leaned against the trunk beside Doyle. He wordlessly pulled the cigarette from over his ear and handed it to her along with the lighter. She accepted both willingly. "How'd you know I was here?" She asked, lighting her own cigarette and passing the lighter back over to him.

"I had a hunch, that's all." Doyle replied offhandedly. It was mostly true. He had imagined the scenario where Faith came to turn herself in—he just hadn't imagined it would actually happen. So, when he'd seen a slim brunette that could be Faith walking in the direction of the station, he had to wonder if it wasn't just wishful thinking on his part. Apparently, it wasn't.

"Ya saw Angel get arrested, yeah?" Doyle asked, already pretty sure he knew the answer.

Faith nodded, taking a deep drag from her cigarette. "I was never planning to run."

"Ah… we both know that's a lie." Doyle said, arching a knowing brow at her. "But, it means something that you came back."

"I guess so." She responded, sounding wholly unconvinced.

"Running wouldn't help in this case." Doyle reasoned. "The demons are inside of ya. And doing the right thing is the only way to fight 'em. Trust me on that one."

"I wish there was some other 'right thing' aside from rotting away in jail." Faith remarked.

"There is, but I'm not sure you're quite ready for that step, yet." Doyle commented. "So, maybe ya try this for a while and see what happens."

"Doyle…?" She exhaled a long stream of smoke, before raising her eyes to look at him. Again she had that childlike look about her, the one that reminded Doyle why he'd stuck around to see this thing through. "You think I can do it?" She asked in a small voice. "You think I can change?"

Doyle gave her an encouraging smile, tossing the remainder of his cigarette away. "I think ya already have, darlin'."

* * *

Doyle watched as they marched Faith away in handcuffs. He was proud of her—if that was a thing he could be of a murderer who had confessed her crime. Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten how much he hated the girl, and realized she was just that—a girl. A lonely girl in need of a friend. A lost soul in need of someone who still cared enough to save it.

She actually reminded him of one of his students back in the day. Sure, little Samantha had been only nine years old and wasn't a slayer or a murderer, for that matter. She was just a very troubled girl. She had beat up the other children on the playground; stole their lunches, vandalized their artwork, disrupted lessons for no reason at all. She was on the verge of expulsion by the time she'd ended up in Doyle's class. But for some reason, he couldn't dismiss the girl as a trouble-maker; he saw the potential in her, underneath the incredibly rough exterior. So he'd sat her down and asked her to explain to him why she did all those things. And asked her if there wasn't a way he could convince her to stop. Her answer had just about gutted him—all the other kids had better lunches, and drew prettier pictures and answered questions much better than she could. They all had friends. She had none. So, maybe if she took those things away from other kids, then she wouldn't be alone anymore.

That, and no one had ever asked her to stop doing those things. They'd punish her. Reprimand her. Tell her she was nothing but trouble. But, no one had ever sat her down and politely asked her to stop. Least of all her parents who seemed to have checked out of her life completely.

It had been heartbreaking to hear.

After that, Doyle made it a point to have lunch with Samantha every afternoon—bringing her a lunch identical to his own. They didn't just eat during those lunches, but rather, they would read or draw or do little brainteasers. Essentially, he'd become Samantha's unofficial tutor and official friend. By the end of the school year, she not only passed with flying colors, but her violent outbursts had ceased entirely. She'd made other friends her own age, and she seemed... happy. It was one of his favorite teaching success stories, and he often wondered what Samantha was up to now that she was a teenager—probably pretty close to Faith's age.

He was so lost in thought that he'd been wandering fairly aimlessly down the long corridor of the police station. He pushed his way through a doorway, separating one half of the hallway from the other. He supposed he should be looking for Angel so they could get the hell out of there before Kate changed her mind about letting them all leave. That's when he heard the voices echoing down the hallway, just around the corner from where he had wandered. A female voice and…

"Not in my city." Angel's voice. And it didn't sound friendly.

"I have someone in my life now. That I love." Buffy's voice. Also, not friendly.

Doyle had almost run smack into Buffy and Angel in the middle of what sounded like a very private conversation. He immediately about-faced, but found that the door he'd pushed open only moments earlier was now blocked by several cops having what looked like a rowdy conversation on the other side. If he opened the door again, it would be disruptive for sure.

He heard Buffy still talking. "It's not what you and I had. It's very new. You know what makes it new? I trust him. I know him."

Doyle heard Angel let out a sharp breath in reply. It wasn't hard for him to imagine the expression that would've gone along with it. "That's great. It's nice you moved on… _I can't._ You found someone new. I'm not allowed to, remember? I see you again it cuts me up inside and the person I share that with is me! You don't know me anymore. So don't come down here with your great new life and _expect_ me to do things your way. Go home!"

Doyle found himself grimacing on both Angel and Buffy's behalf. Angel's pain struck pretty close to home for Doyle—he'd spent years feeling exactly like Angel was feeling now. And even though Doyle had finally moved on, the memories of the pain he'd carried still ran deep.

"See? Faith wins again." Buffy's mournful voice carried around the corner to Doyle's ears.

" _Go_." Angel repeated, the ache in his gut was nearly audible.

A few light footsteps echoed until they faded into the distance, and Doyle was thankful that she hadn't walked in his direction. He hadn't intended to eavesdrop, and it would have been significantly worse to be caught eavesdropping than it was to simply have done it accidentally.

A dull thud against the wall sounded enough like a fist that Doyle figured it was time to reveal his presence—assuming Angel didn't already know he was there, which Doyle thought unlikely. Those vampire senses were rarely ever fooled.

"Ya okay, man?" Doyle asked, rounding the bend and leaning beside the brand new dent in the wall of the police station.

"For a taciturn, shadowy guy… I've got a big mouth." Angel lamented.

"Happens to the best of us when our exes pop up outta nowhere." Doyle sympathized. "Although, I've never been taciturn or shadowy, so I suppose my big mouth was really no surprise, huh?"

"I shouldn't have yelled at her like that." Angel said, more to himself than Doyle. "She came here because she was worried and I…" Angel sighed heavily, leaning his back against the wall and staring up at the ceiling. "She didn't deserve that."

"Ya should go after her." Doyle suggested. "Make things right, or at least as right as they can be."

"I want to." Angel replied without hesitation. "I'm just not sure it's such a good idea."

"Well, I wasn't eavesdropping or nothing—"

"Yes, you were." Angel pointed out, but it wasn't said confrontationally. Angel didn't seem to mind that Doyle had heard, perhaps, because he knew Doyle understood implicitly.

"Alright…but I wasn't eavesdropping _on purpose_." Doyle clarified. "Anyway, you're wrong about one thing, man. You're not alone with all those feelings. I know I'm not a substitute for the great love of your life, but if ya wanna have yourself a pity party, don't hesitate to invite me, yeah?"

Angel chuckled despite his dark mood. "No, Doyle, you are definitely not a substitute for Buffy."

"And thank God for that!" Doyle exclaimed, patting Angel on the shoulder. "I'd hate for us to have to deny ourselves a night of drinking a fine single malt together on account of you turning evil."

"I am glad you're here." Angel admitted, walking that fine line between cool detachment and over-sentimentality.

"That makes two of us, man." Doyle agreed. "And, for what it's worth, I think ya did the right thing here. Giving Faith a chance like that—I don't think anyone's ever given her a real chance her whole life."

"I think I probably owe you some thanks for her showing up here, don't I?" Angel noted, nodding his head toward the exit and starting to walk toward it with Doyle on his heels.

"Nah… she did that part all on her own." Doyle assured him.

Angel smiled knowingly. "Something tells me you were a pretty great teacher, Doyle."

"I guess I did have a knack for relating to the younger generation." Doyle said, embracing the wave of nostalgia he'd been riding earlier in the evening. "Especially the ones no one else seemed willing or able to relate to."

"So, tell me, since I'm someone no one else seems to relate to…" Angel asked half-jokingly, and all-seriously. "Should I talk to Buffy? Clear the air with her before it's too late?"

"I said I could relate to the younger generation, man—in case you forgot, you're more than a century older than my Gran. Closer to two, in fact." Doyle teased, trying to lighten the mood. His laughing eyes became serious as he met Angel's dejected gaze. "You won't be right 'til ya make things right with her, man. And, I think y'know calling won't cut it in this case."

"You think I should go to Sunnydale." Angel guessed, a little surprised by the implied suggestion.

"I do." Doyle clarified, slinging an arm over Angel's shoulder in solidarity. "But, there's not nearly enough night left for ya to make it there without bursting into flames—so, tonight we drink. The driving can be done tomorrow, yeah?"


	40. Sanctuary, Pt 4

**"Sanctuary," Part IV**

Doyle shuffled exhaustedly down the poorly lit hallway outside his apartment. It had been a long night, but really, were there any nights that weren't long in this business they called the good fight? Doyle couldn't remember the last time his night didn't end at the crack of dawn—if he was lucky. He was almost relieved that Angel had passed on the nightcap—Doyle's bed was calling his name; and he had the distinct urge to make it to the bed this evening.

As he unlocked his front door, pushed the door open, and flipped on the light, he wondered if he wasn't more tired than he thought and had accidentally entered the wrong unit. He even took a step back, re-checking the number on the front door to ascertain that he was in the right place. He stepped back inside, still blinking in amazement. If he'd had anything to steal, he would have worried that someone had come and cleaned the place out, but as it was, it was simply _clean_. Spotless, in fact. No dirty laundry to trip over, no piles of books and old newspapers strewn about, no heaping ashtrays or empty bottles. And was that incense burning low on the coffee table? He couldn't, for the life of him, remember ever buying incense. It always made him sneeze. But sure enough, he sniffed the air and instead of being greeted with _eau de bong water_ —as Cordelia had so kindly put it—he smelled something sweet, like cinnamon. Of course, his nose immediately started to itch.

"Aaaa-CHOOOO!" The spikes came involuntarily, and he shook them off as he rubbed his itchy nose.

"Doyle?"

He had still been standing dumbly just inside the doorway when he heard her soft voice call to him from the other end of the partially lit room. The bundle of covers on the bed rustled and she emerged from them a moment later, in her own cozy, cotton PJs, sleepily rubbing at her eyes as she left the bed and crossed to where he stood. She yawned as she stumbled toward him and then blinked in rapid succession, trying to wake herself up. "You're back." She said groggily, not hiding the soft relief in her voice. "What happened to Faith?"

"She's in jail." He replied, still in a state of shock. He let his eyes roam over the pristine living area and then return to the sleepy, but sexy woman standing before him. "You're... here. And ya cleaned the place! I always knew ya were a goddess, I just didn't realize it was of the domestic variety."

Cordelia gave a soft chuckle, slowly heading toward a more alert state. "I guess I picked up a few things from watching the maid all those years—but you are sworn to secrecy. This gets out and Angel might expect me to do more than sweep dust under the rug at the office."

At that moment, Doyle realized he'd stood there a whole five minutes without sweeping the woman he loved into his arms and kissing her senseless. So, he promptly rectified the situation, by slipping his arms around her and smiling down as he slowly approached her lips. "I can't tell ya how happy I am to see ya, darlin'." He murmured right before claiming her lips for his own.

The temperature spiked considerably as it tended to do when they were in each other's arms, but curiosity got the better of him. He pulled back, still holding her close and marveled down at her.

"What are you looking at?" She asked, her eyes firmly affixed on his mouth. He could always tell when she wanted him to be kissing her instead of talking—now was certainly one of those times. Although the feeling was mutual, he needed to do just a _little_ talking first.

"I thought you'd be long gone by now. What happened to your little getaway, huh?" He wondered.

Cordelia's mouth formed a small pout as she looked up at him with her warm, wide eyes. "Well, I was all packed and ready to go pamper myself for days on end and then the most annoying thing happened." She sighed with exasperation.

"Oh, yeah? What was that?" Doyle asked, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"I missed you." She complained, and as sweet as the sentiment was, the words were still said in a frustrated tone. "The whole reason I wanted the getaway was so that we would get away _together_. Not so I could go alone."

Doyle was chuckling softly now. "That really bothered ya, huh? The missing me bit."

"You bet it bothered me!" She huffed, still remaining in his arms, but giving him a light swat in the upper arm. "I'm supposed to live for those days of lounging around on a beach doing nothing but working on my tan and getting massages and drinking fruity drinks with little paper umbrellas in them. That's me—that's who Cordelia Chase is! Not someone who sticks around and cleans out this rat-hole you call an apartment—which, by the way, it was kind of a miracle you didn't have any _actual_ rats living here with the amount of gross things you had buried under other gross things—And why are you smiling like that? Don't smile. This isn't funny, Doyle!"

He couldn't have wiped the smile away if he tried. It's not every day that the Princess chose to become Cinderella for the love of a pauper. "I don't think it's funny, Princess." Doyle assured her, leaning down to plant a tender kiss on her forehead. "Anything, but."

His lips brushing against her skin seemed to calm her down, and a smile played at the corners of her mouth even as she poked her index finger into the center of his chest. "Just so we're clear, this was a fluke. I still want the finer things in life. Got it? And you'd better not even think about flaking on our next vacation, because I will be _so_ gone without you, buster!"

"Ah... next time it'll be that cruise we talked about. Promise." Doyle said, with a sincere little nod. "Now... you gonna tell me if ya found anything I needa be embarrassed about or you wanna skip ahead to the part where I show you just how thankful I am for all the work ya did?"

"Oh, I definitely want the thanking. A whole night of thanking followed by weeks on end of more thanking. Some of which will take place horizontally, but I think nice dinners and presents are also in order." She insisted. "Since you asked, you should be embarrassed by everything I found. The sheer number of empty bottles alone—sheesh! And all the not-empty ashtrays—no wonder this place stunk so bad. Then, there was the unfortunate matter of your dirty laundry..."

"Uh huh..." He replied thoughtfully. "Maybe I shouldn't have asked that question and just skipped ahead to the thanking."

She gave him a look that told him he had no one but himself to blame as she moved out of his arms and sauntered toward the couch. The candlelight flickered as she caused the air to move around it. "I won't lie, part of my motivation for cleaning the place was so I could see if there was anything enlightening. Or _incriminating_. In the very least I thought there'd be pictures of you with bad 80s hair or whatever, but there was nothing. Only one yearbook on your bookshelf from when you were a faculty member."

"I didn't know I had that much." He admitted, following after her and taking a seat on the couch—she had not actually taken a seat, but instead hovered there with her arms folded. "Never really hung on to pictures and the like. Not after the whole, uh... demon thing."

"Well, I'm glad I found one, at least. Y'know, you looked good in glasses." She said with a smirk. "Very studious. And... _sexy_."

He raised his brows at that comment. "Hot for teacher, are ya?"

"Maybe." She answered coyly.

Her teasing gaze changed as she unfolded her arms and lifted something off the top of the nearby bookshelf. "There was this one weird thing I found. I don't think I get it. There's all this stuff written about Angel... and there's some stuff about me, too, I think. And Wesley. But, none of it's true."

As soon as he saw what she was holding, his breath caught in his chest. It was the notebook containing everything he could recall about his vision of the future. He honestly didn't even know where he'd tossed the thing—so useless it had been up until this point. Now she was holding it and flipping through it, the lines in her forehead crinkling lightly. "Are you writing a novel or something? Because, no offense, Doyle, but you are no Stephen King. You should probably stick to your day job."

"Ah... no, nothing like that." He stood up quickly and gently took the notebook out of her hands, shutting it and holding it awkwardly. "Did ya read the whole thing?"

"I should probably say yes to spare your feelings, but no—I skimmed through a few pages, but it was basically unreadable." She was staring at him questioningly, waiting for him to explain and as he stared back at her. "What is it?"

Doyle felt like the truth was long overdue. All the reasons he hadn't told her about the vision seemed moot now. He wasn't even sure if the notes meant anything anymore, or if they ever had, for that matter. His fears of intimidating her or burdening her, also seemed rather misguided. This Cordelia, the one who had chosen to give up a weekend of luxury to clean his apartment, wasn't exactly the same girl from several months ago. That girl—he'd been wary of doing anything that might frighten her away from him. This girl, on the other hand... this girl could handle it, and then some. This girl wasn't going anywhere… at least, he hoped she wasn't, because he needed her.

"You should... uh... sit down, I think." He said, gesturing to the couch behind him and taking the seat he'd recently vacated. He saw the worry that clouded her features as she moved beside him and slunk down onto the cushions. She had naturally sat so she was facing him and one of her legs was bent so that it practically landed in his lap, along with a hand she placed there. It felt so natural for her to be close to him; it had become the norm and he didn't want anything to change that. Least of all this book of gibberish.

"Is there something wrong?" She saw the serious look on his face and it gave her pause.

"Nothing's wrong at the moment, darlin'." Doyle said gently, reaching out to give her hand a comforting squeeze. "But that wasn't always the case. Ya see... " He took a deep breath, wondering where he should start. "Not sure how to say this, but I'm not technically supposed to be here right now."

That didn't help wipe the fear off her face, or the confusion. "Where are you supposed to be?"

"Ya remember that night with the Scourge, yeah? The night where the Beacon almost turned us all to dust?"

Her face told him just how crazy she thought that question was. "Do I remember? I'm not likely to forget a night where we all almost died, and some weirdo used my face as a disguise."

"Yeah... ah... well, the thing of it is, I was supposed to die that night. In fact, I _did_ die that night." The look on her face made him hurry his words, so she wouldn't have a chance to interrupt before he got it all out. "That woman who looked just like ya—turns out, she _was_ you. She—you—came back in time to save me that night and here we are."

"Did you hit your head?" She asked, subtly examining him for any previously unnoticed head wounds. "Or is this a delayed reaction from the hit you took the other night?"

"I know it sounds crazy, Cordelia. Believe me." Doyle acknowledged. "But that future version of you passed me a vision, and this book is filled with everything I can remember from it." He held the notebook up in the air to emphasize his point. "It's supposed to help guide me, so that whatever awful things happened the first time 'round, won't be happening again. And, I'm thinking there was some seriously horrible stuff, if the Powers That Be let ya change things so drastically."

"Oh my God." Cordelia breathed, shaking her head slowly back and forth in disbelief. " _I_ did it? I changed... everything?"

"A different version of you, yeah." Doyle explained. "Seems like you kept working for Angel even when I wasn't around to liven up the place." He winked at her, trying to lighten the mood, but she was absorbed in the haze of a hundred different thoughts and each one of them appeared to be blowing her mind. Doyle continued, hoping he could soften the blow, by helping her to understand. "And, unless I'm really off-base, I think ya probably inherited my visions as well—replaced me as Angel's closest friend and all that. 'Cause, ya see, as much as I'd like to think you came back to save me in some grand romantic gesture, it seems more likely that you were trying to save Angel. Ya wanted him to keep fighting the good fight, whatever the cost."

Her eyes remained focused on the candle that was flickering beside them, and he could see she was having trouble wrapping her brain around everything—just as he had once had trouble with it himself. "Why didn't you tell me?" She asked, finally raising her clouded eyes to meet his clear ones.

"Well, at first I didn't tell ya 'cause I needed time to wrap my own head around it."

"And then?" She demanded.

"I wasn't sure how to tell ya, or even if it mattered. Nothing in the book has ever made a lick of sense. So, either things have already changed so much that what I saw in the vision isn't going to be all that helpful, or we haven't gotten to the things I'm supposed to change."

Cordelia pursed her lips, seemingly debating whether or not to be insulted by the information he'd withheld from her. "I assume you told Angel about all this stuff. I'm the odd-woman-out, right?" She asked gesturing to the notebook that now balanced precariously on Doyle's knee.

"He knows about the other you and the vision and all that, but he doesn't know specifics. He never asked, and I never offered. Tell ya the truth, it's probably better that way. No one can be objective about changing their own future. I can, since I didn't have one the first time." Doyle shrugged. "That's probably why the Oracles told him it's my responsibility to keep things on track, and he's trusting me to do the job right. I hope you'll be willing to do the same."

She blinked at him several times, and he was surprised to see a thin sheen of tears glistening. He leaned forward to catch her face in his hand, and rub his thumb tenderly over her cheek. "What is it, love? Did ya read something in the book that upset ya?"

"You were dead." She whimpered softly. "I don't really want to think about what would've happened if you weren't here. I can't even begin to imagine..." Her voice caught in her throat and she lifted a hand to cover her mouth.

"Shhh, Princess. It's okay." He soothed, pulling her into his arms. "That part is ancient history. I'm not dying. You already saved me."

Cordelia's arms found their way around his body and her fingers dug into his back as she gripped him tightly. He felt her bury her face on the shoulder of his shirt before pulling back to look into his eyes. "I guess the future-me wasn't too crazy about living in a Doyle-less world either, huh?"

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair off her soft cheek. "Guess not."

She smiled, too, and leaned forward to seize his lips with her own. Her kiss was heated, laced with an urgency that only the fear of loss can bring. He kissed her back just as passionately, letting the notebook slide off his lap and fall forgotten to the floor as all his attention shifted to her and only her.

The talking had ended, now was the time for enjoying the fact that they had a future.


	41. War Zone, Pt 1

**"War Zone," Part I**

"Oh wow! Would you look at this place?! I could live here. I could _absolutely_ live here!"

"Ah… well, I wouldn't get too comfortable, Princess. You haven't been asked to move in just yet."

Cordelia had entered the doorway of the swanky Beverly Hills mansion where they were scheduled to meet their new client, David Nabbit. The mansion in question belonged to one and the same. Doyle had been purposely walking a few steps behind her, enjoying the view. She was finally wearing that leather mini-skirt that was occupying a sizable percentage of her credit limit—the one she'd bought on her shopping spree with Rebecca Lowell. Doyle was pretty sure it was worth every penny. At least, from where he was standing.

She spun back toward him with a mischievous eyebrow raise. "Give me time, Doyle. You're not the only one who can be charming."

"Hey, that's not funny." He complained to Angel who was silently walking beside him, taking in the impressive surroundings. "Do y'know what this guy looks like? 'Cause if we're about to meet one of those beefy male-model types, a fella's liable to start getting the wrong idea about why she was so insistent we take this case."

Doyle was already getting the wrong idea about why she wore the mini-skirt.

He ripped his eyes away from her bottom and took in the expansive room, decorated with modern flourishes and large picture windows. Inside, the place was filled top to bottom with attractive people, dressed in expensive-looking clothing. Outside in front of the mansion, their luxury cars were parked all in a row. And in between all the party guests were finely-dressed servers carrying trays full of hot appetizers and cold drinks. And Cordelia was eating it all up by the spoonful—he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her eyes light up with this much excitement.

"It is a lovely home." Wesley said admiringly, as he walked ahead with Cordelia. "Very spacious. Are you certain Mr. Nabbit lives here alone?"

"Pretty sure. I know he's not married." Cordelia said distractedly, scanning the crowd.

"Do ya check the relationship status of all our clients?" Doyle wondered under his breath. "Or just the filthy rich ones?"

If she'd heard Doyle's comment, she didn't bother acknowledging it, still fixated on the faces in the crowd. Finally she pointed to a dark-haired man sitting off to the side and made a beeline in his direction. "That's him. That's our guy."

Doyle followed the direction of her index finger, preparing himself to be seized with jealousy. When his eyes landed on the plaid-shirted nebbish sitting in the corner by himself, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Guess it's just a really good case." He remarked to Angel, before following in Cordelia's footsteps.

Cordelia walked right up to the client, who was sitting on an L-shaped couch in the corner, nibbling on a plate of hor d'oeuvres. "Mr. Nabbit!" She greeted enthusiastically, extending her hand. "I'm Cordelia Chase. We spoke on the phone."

"Oh, uh... Ms. Chase." Nabbit said, standing up gawkily to shake her hand and dropping the food back on his plate. He couldn't quite meet her eyes as he attempted to speak to her. "Th-Thanks for coming."

"Happy to." She replied, as Doyle, Angel and Wesley all appeared beside her, each looking more uncomfortable than the next.

"Uh… there's a lot of you." Nabbit observed, taking in each of the faces. "Which one of you is Angel?"

"That would be me." Angel identified himself, stepping forward to shake the client's hand. "And these are my associates, Doyle and Wesley."

"David Nabbit." He stated unnecessarily, shaking each of their hands in succession. "So glad you all could come."

"Great party, man." Doyle enthused as Nabbit got to his hand for the shake. "Quite an impressive crowd you've got here."

"Yeah, seems nice, doesn't it?" Nabbit replied, not looking like he truly agreed with the sentiment.

"Oh my God! Is that Welling Harding?!" Cordelia squealed, causing Doyle to jump and cover his left ear. The longer he dated her, the more positive he was that there'd be a hearing aid in his future. Even so, he glanced over his shoulder to see who she was pointing to—not that he had the vaguest idea who this Harding fellow was, or what he might look like. As his eyes fell on a tall, attractive guy sporting a Rolex, Doyle reflexively slid his arm around Cordelia's waist.

Nabbit's anxious voice pulled Doyle's focus back into the circle of people he'd walked in with.

"I - I - I have no idea. I don't know most of these people. I - I don't even talk to them. They come to the party. I - I think they have fun." Nabbit stuttered through most of his reply that was vaguely sent in Cordelia's direction. He then cleared his throat uncomfortably and picked up a tray of food from the table in front of him. He held it out in offering. "These are crab."

Doyle and Cordelia each grabbed for an appetizer, warranting a stern look from Angel. Doyle retracted his hand with a nervous laugh, but Cordelia snatched a crab puff, shoving it in her mouth defiantly. Her eyebrows shot upward in obvious approval and Doyle felt himself lick his lips enviously. Angel turned his attention to Nabbit. "Was there a reason you wanted to meet during a party?"

Nabbit placed the tray back on the table and took a seat on one side of the L-shaped sofa. He didn't offer the other seats to them, but Doyle went ahead and plopped down on the opposite side of the L, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. Cordelia sat down beside him nearly in unison, casually reaching for another crab puff.

"Well… Ms. Chase suggested it." Nabbit replied, blushing as he gestured to Cordelia who had a mouthful of appetizer. She smiled guiltily as Angel glared in her direction for a second time. "And, uh… I-I think it's good. Very inconspicuous. We're not likely to get interrupted. No one ever talks to me at these things."

Angel finally took a seat on the arm of Nabbit's side of the couch, while Wesley remained standing, becoming mildly distracted by a tray of hot food that went by sending a delicious aroma in their direction. "Okay… why don't you tell us about your case." Angel was all business.

"Right. Um… so I guess you could call it a blackmail thing." Nabbit mumbled, staring down into his lap.

Doyle went ahead and snatched his own crab puff while Angel was focused on the client. Oh yeah, that was _good_. He gave Cordelia an approving eyebrow raise, and she wordlessly communicated her own approval. They were both momentarily distracted by a server who stopped to offer them drinks from a tray. Each of them gladly accepted without hesitation. Doyle was careful not to make direct eye contact with Angel thereafter, preferring not to be on the receiving end of the vampire's myriad of condemning glares.

"Go on." Angel encouraged the nervous little man sitting beside him. "We're all very discreet. I promise."

"Yes, discretion is key in our line of work." Cordelia piped in holding up her champagne glass as an example of just how discrete she could be. "In fact our full company motto is 'We help the hopeless… while being incredibly discrete.'"

"Hence all the blending." Doyle explained, backing her up, by snagging another crab puff.

"That makes sense." Nabbit agreed as he toyed with the cocktail napkin in his lap. "So… um, are you familiar with Dungeons and Dragons?"

"Yeah. I've seen a few." Angel replied, without missing a beat.

Doyle began choking on his crab puff and Cordelia patted his back in concern. He sipped from his newly acquired drink to wash down the food lodged in his esophagus. Wesley too had to catch himself as he snagged a passing appetizer and didn't quite get to take a bite, instead coming to Angel's rescue. "You mean the… ah, role playing game."

Angel looked up at Wesley in befuddlement. "Oh…game. _Right._ "

"You've played?" Nabbit asked Wesley, a hint of excitement edging into his voice. For the first time since they'd sat down with the guy, he seemed to have an actual personality trait other than _anxious_. "It's pretty cool, right? You get to be someone else for a while—fighting Troglodytes and romancing exotic, demon princesses. A real rush!"

"Well, if it's as nerdy as it sounds, then I'm sure Wesley's into it." Cordelia remarked, eliciting a mildly insulted look from Wesley. She merely smiled in reply and took a small sip of her own drink. She must have liked what she tasted, because she lifted the glass and studied the bubbly liquid within. "Mmm, is this Dom Perignon?"

"Seems like a funny thing to blackmail a guy over." Doyle commented, licking his greasy fingers. Damn, those crab puffs were tasty and the bubbly stuff he washed them down was really hitting the spot. He was only half paying attention to the client, but that was still better than Cordelia who had given up all pretenses of doing anything but people-watching. "I bet a lotta guys in your line of work are into that sorta thing, yeah? Nothing to be ashamed of."

Nabbit was chuckling, amused by the conversation; finally seeming a little more relaxed. Although, relaxed for Nabbit was still fairly neurotic for most people. "No, that's no big secret. But… uh… some of us got _really_ into it." He paused, his cheeks flushing a deep red. "Especially the demon romance part. We, um, heard about this place where… well, there were real demons and you could…you know…"

"You went to Madam Dorion's." Doyle finished matter-of-factly, finally understanding why this was a blackmail-able offense.

"J-J-Just once!" Nabbit stammered, fiddling nervously with his cocktail napkin. His face couldn't have turned any redder, it was very near impossible. Doyle was almost a little concerned for the guy's health—that couldn't be good for the blood pressure.

"What's Madam Dorion's?" Cordelia asked, directing her wide questioning gaze toward Doyle. Oh sure, _now_ she was listening. Angel and Wesley were also looking at Doyle inquiringly.

It was Doyle's turn to clear his throat uncomfortably and wriggle like a worm on a hook, as he kept his eyes firmly pointed in Angel's direction for the first time since they'd sat down. "Ah… it's a demon brothel in Bel Air." Doyle answered sheepishly, and immediately felt Cordelia's posture stiffen beside him. "I can't be the only one who's heard of the place?"

"There may have been some talk amongst the Council…" Wesley said in a low voice, hinting at scandalous activities. He shoved his own little appetizer into his mouth so he wouldn't have to make further comment.

"Okay, maybe twice." Nabbit continued explaining, unaware of the silent wave of tension that had engulfed the couple beside him.

 _"You've been to a demon brothel?"_ Cordelia loudly whispered to Doyle through gritted teeth.

"Fine. It was twelve times." Nabbit finished, dropping his head into one of his hands in shame. "But the only people who ever knew about it were the friends who went with me."

"Well, one of them wasn't your friend." Angel reasoned, folding his arms over his chest contemplatively.

 _"Only in the literal sense."_ Doyle muttered back out of the corner of his mouth, silently begging for her to drop it. " _Doesn't mean what ya think it means."_

"This guy Lenny Edwards has… pictures." Nabbit explained, pulling out a blurry photo of a bald guy and handing it over to Angel. "My security guys identified him, but I don't know where he is."

 _"Well, what does it mean?!"_ Cordelia whisper-yelled, her elbow digging into Doyle's side. Somehow even when she whispered, her tone managed to become shrill. _"And don't try to tell me they have a great dinner special."_

 _"Well, I can't tell ya that 'cause there's no food on that menu, darlin'."_ Doyle whispered back with annoyance. _"Do ya really wanna have this conversation now?"_

Angel stood up abruptly, distracting Cordelia and Doyle from their whispered bickering. "We'll find him. And, I assure you, those pictures won't see the light of day."

Nabbit stood up too, shaking Angel's hand once more, this time much more enthusiastically than the first time. "Great. Thanks… I mean, if my stockholders see them—"

"They won't. We're on the case." Angel reaffirmed, before turning his now seemingly permanent scolding gaze on his two employees who were looking all too comfortable drinking champagne on the couch, even as they continued to stare daggers into each other. "If you two are done?"

"Oh, we're done alright." Cordelia huffed, pulling herself up off the couch and folding her arms over her chest defiantly. "But, we should stay and mingle, that way no one will suspect anything. Right, _Doyle_?"

She stared down at Doyle, challenging him to disagree with her. He remained seated, frowning up at her, knowing he was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. He would've much preferred escorting her back to her apartment and spending the night begging her forgiveness for something he wasn't actually guilty of, rather than unleashing her on a crowd of good-looking rich guys whilst she was holding a misguided grudge against him. He sighed heavily, knowing that she'd been looking forward to the party—for better or for worse, he'd choose a happy Cordelia over any other choice.

"Can never be too careful in this line of work, man." Doyle appealed to Angel as he stood up slowly to stand beside his disgruntled girlfriend. He raised his glass in the air. "Mingling for a bit would be the smart thing."

"Hey, David!" A tall, willowy blonde called cheerfully as she strutted by their table without pausing.

"Oh, h-h-hey. Nice-nice seeing you again. Yeah." Nabbit called, waving to the blonde. He then shrugged, and his shoulders dropped into a slump. "I have no idea who she is."

Angel turned a pleading glance on his other employee. "Wesley, what about you?"

Wesley's eyes had trailed after the blonde, and he blinked himself back to reality at Angel's question. "I… uh… suppose mingling would be wise under the circumstances…" With that Wesley wandered off after the woman, without so much as a glance back in their direction.

Nabbit sat back down in his original spot across from Doyle and grabbed one of the last remaining crab puffs. Angel shook his head and floated away through the crowd, headed straight to the front door. Doyle hoped he wouldn't actually leave, seeing how he had driven them all there. Unfortunately, there was nothing Angel hated more than mingling.

Cordelia stood rigidly beside Doyle, taking small sips from her glass of champagne. There was nothing he wanted to do less than spend the night arguing with her—not here, not now. Not ever, really. "You're not looking too inconspicuous there, Princess, with the great big scowl on your face. If ya don't start enjoying yourself soon, the whole party will be on to us."

"Well, maybe if I go talk to someone who _isn't you_ it'll cheer me up." She snapped back at him. "What do you think of that?"

"Be my guest." He retorted. "Go off and chat up all these annoying rich folks and have yourself a grand ol' time. I know that's what you're dying to do."

"That's right. I am dying to do that!" She said a little too enthusiastically, and that's when Doyle knew she was overcompensating. It seemed that she didn't actually want to stomp off in anger—she was waiting for a sign she shouldn't. Or rather, a sign that she could flit off in non-anger and have a genuinely good time. So, of course, Doyle was going to give it to her.

"And I'm dying to see ya do it." He insisted, infusing his voice with the proper mixture of defensiveness and mirth. "But not before reiterating the fact that I've been falsely accused. So, ya should drop the whole woman scorned act and consider apologizing instead. That way you can go enjoy this party good and proper, and I won't end up in the doghouse for a punishable offense such as ruining your evening."

Cordelia stared at him long and hard, her gaze penetrating several layers beneath the surface. Whatever she saw, apparently satisfied her. Her cold veneer cracked and she finally rolled her eyes, letting out a long sigh. "I do want to enjoy the party." She relented. "I guess I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions about you being a pervert—even though you totally are a pervert."

"No one does an apology quite like you, darlin'." Doyle responded humorlessly.

She was no longer simmering, which was a relief. Doyle much preferred the excited gleam that had returned to her eyes—although that worried him in an entirely different way. He tried not to let it show, as he heard the next words that came out of her mouth.

"Okay, now I'm ready to mingle!" She announced cheerily, giving his shoulder a friendly little pat. She smoothed out her skirt, gave her hair an elaborate toss and sashayed off into the crowd. Doyle watched her go, once again appreciating the view of her walking away. That woman would surely be the death of him.

Doyle deftly snagged a second drink from a passing server, discarding his empty glass back onto the tray, and then he sank back down onto the couch behind him. His eyes never left Cordelia and her leather miniskirt… oh man, she'd made a beeline for that Harding guy with the Rolex. _This is definitely gonna be a long night_ , Doyle thought, taking a long sip from his new glass of champagne.

"That was… uh…" Nabbit smiled self-consciously as Doyle looked over to see him still sitting there, across the way. He had been listening to the entire conversation, and was now regarding Doyle in something resembling quiet awe. "You're good at talking to women. That was supposed to be my next achievement, after the whole billion-dollar corporation thing. Didn't really work out."

Doyle narrowed his eyes at Nabbit curiously—the words "billion dollar" echoing around in his head. This guy didn't seem capable of making that kind of money, and yet, the evidence was all around them. It hadn't been lost on Doyle that Nabbit only stuttered when addressing Cordelia directly. If that was the way he related to all women it was no wonder the guy resorted to paying non-human females to do God knows what. "Ah… yeah, I dunno if I'm as good as all that. I can talk to _that_ particular woman most of the time. But she doesn't make it easy… which I suppose is half the fun, if I'm bein' really honest."

Doyle threw a glance back over in Cordelia's direction and saw that she and Harding were having themselves quite a laugh over there by the fireplace. He furrowed his brow disapprovingly as the guy's expensive watch caught the light—even the inanimate objects seemed to rubbing it in. He looked down at his own watch, plain and cheap as could be.

"She was mad at you and then she…wasn't." Nabbit sounded truly amazed by this accomplishment. "I can't even get a girl to notice me long enough to be mad."

Doyle ripped his eyes away from Cordelia and her new friend in order to address the gawky man seated across from him. "There's a couple things ya should know, Dave… can I call ya Dave?" Doyle asked, not waiting to hear Nabbit's reply. He leaned forward in his seat, arms resting on knees. "First thing—there's a high percentage of women in this very room who'd go out with ya and you wouldn't have to do much in the way of talking to make that happen."

"There are?" Nabbit asked uncertainly, as he looked up at all the female faces in the crowd his stutter returned. "I-I-I don't think so."

"Oh, sure. Yeah. Remember, you have the power… and with great power, comes great responsibility."

"You're a Spider-Man fan." Nabbit replied, nodding along with Doyle's words as if he was following. Doyle couldn't tell whether or not Nabbit actually understood what Doyle was trying to say, but he knew for certain that _he_ wasn't really sure what he was trying to say.

"Ah… really more a fan of the green guy myself." Doyle noted. "As are most of the ladies here, I imagine."

"Women like the Green Goblin?" Nabbit asked in surprise.

"No, man. Money!" Doyle clarified. " _Money_ is power."

Nabbit pondered that for a moment as Doyle once again turned to see what Cordelia was doing. Not only was she laughing uproariously at whatever that rich guy had said, but she was touching his arm. Red alert. Red alert!

"What's the other thing I should know?" Nabbit asked from the other end of the L-shaped couch.

Doyle shook his head in frustration, this time not daring to take his eyes off his flirtatious girlfriend. "Second thing is—she's still mad at me. Which means my night of groveling has only just begun. 'Cause ya see, mate, I myself don't have any of the green stuff to do the heavy lifting for me."


	42. War Zone, Pt 2

**"War Zone," Part II**

Angel trailed behind Doyle as they weaved their way through the room of scantily clad demon women, trying to ignore the lewd comments and come-ons. Doyle kept his eyes trained on the floor as much as possible, but even though he didn't want to be looking… he did find his eyes wandering to a few demon women who had some of his favorite human-female assets. What could he say, he'd always been weak.

"Certainly know your way around the place for someone who's never been here." Angel commented dryly, causing Doyle to toss a thankless glare over his shoulder.

"Don't you start, too, man." Doyle complained. "I already got an earful from Cordy last night. So what if I've been here? I've never been a paying customer."

"Doyle, you know I don't care what you've done in your spare time." Angel assured him.

Doyle stopped walking and held up a hand for Angel to pause as well. "Why's it that everyone seems to think I'm some kinda degenerate? Even if I was to go to a house of ill repute—and I'm not sayin' I have—I wouldn't come to a place that only has demons on the menu. I like 'em human, and only human. Always have. Geez!"

Doyle's little outburst warranted some dirty looks from the demon women within earshot. It clearly wasn't the place to be spewing anti-demon sentiments. "No offense, ladies." Doyle said apologetically. "There's no accounting for taste, yeah?"

"Alright." Angel replied calmly. "Like I said, I don't care. It's just... I mean, you've never been even a little bit curious?" Angel mumbled the last part, averting his eyes.

Doyle was apoplectic. "No, I've never been..." He sputtered incoherently for a moment, and then caught on to why Angel might be so interested. "Heeey, I'm starting to think one of us has been curious, but it wasn't me."

"I was evil for over a century, Doyle." Angel said dully. "I was a lot more than curious."

"Ah... well, now that sounds like a story I absolutely _do not_ wanna hear." Doyle wrinkled his nose in distaste, turning back around and continuing the procession through the place. He picked up the pace, to get away from the women he'd insulted. "Truth is, I used to borrow money from a guy who frequented the place. Met him here on quite a few occasions—only way to guarantee I'd catch him in a good mood, which if ya owed him as much as I did, was a very important thing."

"Okay." Angel replied, finally sounding like he believed Doyle's tale. "Is that what you told Cordelia?"

"Are ya kidding?" Doyle choked at the absurdity of telling Cordelia he was at a demon brothel to borrow money from a loan shark. Talk about adding insult to injury. "Anyway, man, when it comes to Cordy, I think I've got bigger things to worry about than my damaged reputation... Did ya see the way she was acting at that party? Like, she'd returned to her people after years adrift at sea. Y'know, I even caught her in that Nabbit guy's bedroom, counting the threads on his sheets or whatever."

"I don't think you need to worry." Angel assured him. "Cordelia isn't going to leave you for a guy like David Nabbit, no matter how much money he has."

"I wouldn't bet on that, man. Before the night was over she was talking about how the place needed a woman's touch." Doyle fretted. "It's not that I think this Nabbit guy's a threat—more like he represents everything she won't be getting if she sticks with me, yeah? As if she needed another reminder of how much money I _don't_ have."

"Wasn't it just a couple weeks ago she chose to stay at your place rather than going on a paid vacation?" Angel asked rhetorically. "That doesn't sound like someone who's regretting her romantic choices. In fact, that doesn't sound like Cordelia at all." Angel patted Doyle on the shoulder reassuringly as they continued to weave through the crowd. "She's different with you. Trust me, I've known her long enough to see the change."

"I can only hope you're right, man. 'Cause the old Cordelia definitely preferred billions of dollars over my ample but unpretentious charms." Doyle replied, not looking entirely convinced. A familiar looking face in the crowd distracted him from his melancholic thoughts, bringing him back to the present. "Hey, that's one of Jhiera's women, ain't it? Maybe I should go give her Harry's number—"

"Can I help you?" A short, average-looking human, who was most likely Madam Dorion, asked in an unimpressed voice. She had short dull-blonde hair and wore a terribly dated pantsuit with shoulder pads. If Cordelia were present, she would have had something to say about that.

Angel was about to open his mouth in reply to Madam Dorion, but she held up a finger to quiet him. "Not you, vampire. We don't serve your kind. Your friend here can stay—maybe we can help broaden his narrow mind." She placed a hand on Doyle's shoulder, twisting him around and pointing out a demon who, in addition to arms, had what appeared to be no less than eight tentacles. "You might think you're a human-only kind of guy, but I assure you, once Occa gets through with you, you'll be a changed man. Not to mention a regular customer."

"Ah... she looks lovely." Doyle agreed with a gulp. "Great at multitasking, I'm sure..."

"We're private investigators." Angel interrupted, demanding Madam Dorion's attention. "And we've been hired by a client of yours. I'm sure in your line of work, discretion is key, so you wouldn't like it getting out that a regular was secretly photographed here and is now being blackmailed."

"Blackmailed?!" Madam Dorion replied, with a troubled expression. "Not on my watch. Who did you say the client was?"

"I didn't." Angel retorted. "The name's David Nabbit."

"Lina!" Madam Dorion wailed into the air. "Get your quilly ass over here!"

An attractive demon with purple quills for hair and a long slender tail, pushed her way out of the crowd. She gave Angel an appreciative growl and Doyle a slightly more reserved wink, before turning her attention on her irate boss. "Is it a two-fer?" She asked with a little purr. "I like two-fers. You like chasing tail, boys?" She asked coyly and Doyle got the distinct impression she was being literal.

"They aren't clients." Madam Dorion said with an air of disgust. "They're PI's. Seems someone's been blackmailing one of your regulars—that billionaire software guy who stutters a lot. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Lina pouted, twisting her tail in between her fingers. "Ugh... It's too bad." She said regretfully. "I've always wanted to try a vampire and a…" She gave Doyle a curious look. "…whatever you are. We could've had so much fun together."

"Y'know what? I think talking is fun." Angel replied, pulling the blurry photograph he'd gotten from Nabbit out of his pocket. "So, maybe you should start talking about Lenny Edwards."

Lina's pout deepened. "Party pooper."

"He gets that a lot." Doyle deadpanned.

* * *

Doyle and Cordelia stood on the stoop of David Nabbit's Beverly Hills mansion. It was even more impressive by day—every part of it screamed computer software billions. Clean, bright, mostly empty. The fountain that occupied the middle of the large circular driveway bubbled happily in the background.

Checking his watch absently, Doyle wondered if they had time to stop for lunch on the way back to the office—he was starving. Too bad there wouldn't be any crab puffs at this client meeting.

"You didn't have to come with me." Cordelia reminded him, assuming he was checking his watch out of boredom. "I'm perfectly capable of driving to _this_ part of town without a chaperone. It's nothing like where you live."

Shoving his hand in his pocket, Doyle turned to Cordelia feigning innocence. "What, and miss another chance to see how the other half lives?"

"Since when do you care about the other half?" She asked skeptically.

Luckily, he didn't have to continue making excuses for why he felt the need to join her on this particular cross-town expedition. The front door swung open, taking them both by surprise. Nabbit stood on the other side of it wearing a welcoming smile as he gestured for them to enter. "Hi again. Thanks for coming by."

"Hey there, Dave—" Doyle had started his jubilant greeting, only to be whacked on the shoulder by Cordelia as she entered the house along with him. "Ow! What was that for?"

"It's Mr. Nabbit to you." She reprimanded him. "This is a client, remember? Not some pal of yours from down at the track."

"Oh, no, that's fine." Nabbit chuckled with amusement, moving deeper into the house as they followed. He finally stopped at a small table in the corner. "I-I-I like Dave. No one's ever called me Dave before."

"See, he likes Dave." Doyle bragged, in the face of Cordelia's slightly flummoxed expression. He turned back toward Nabbit and nodded toward the check he had conspicuously retrieved from the table. "Nice of ya to be willing to pay our expenses up front."

Truthfully, it was more than nice. It was vital to them being able to keep the lights on in the office for the rest of the month.

"I think this should be enough for now." Nabbit indicated, holding the check out to Doyle. Cordelia snatched it before Doyle could so much as twitch. From the look on Cordelia's face when she read the amount on the check, it was safe to say it was far more than enough.

"Oh my... wow." Cordelia muttered, eyes still glued to the check. She appeared a little weak-kneed, so Doyle stabilized her and used the opportunity to lean over her shoulder and see the amount for himself.

His eyes widened into saucers. Oh yeah, they could light that office like the top of the Chrysler Building if they wanted to, and still have some left over.

"What she means is... wow." Doyle swallowed hard, trying to remember how to operate his tongue by using his brain. "That's a lotta zeros."

"I really appreciate your work. Not to mention, what you did at the party." Nabbit said, smiling bashfully at each of them. "Especially you, Doyle, my man." Nabbit's attempt to use slang came out stilted and awkward, and anything but cool.

Doyle and Cordelia exchanged a perplexed glance, Cordelia in particular looked like she was wondering how she could have missed Doyle doing something so obviously wonderful at the party. All she could recall was him stuffing himself full of crab puffs, drinking his weight in champagne and trying to get her to forget that he knew a little too much information about a demon brothel. That, and he'd totally copped a feel when they were alone in Nabbit's bedroom. That probably wasn't what Nabbit was referring to, however, not unless…

"Do you have cameras in this place?" Cordelia wondered, trying to keep her voice breezy, even as she eyed the room nervously.

"No." Nabbit answered, without the slightest indication that he thought it an odd question. "B-b-but my alarm system is state of the art."

"Good. Just...making sure you're taking care when it comes to home security." Cordelia fake enthused, and then tilted her head in curiosity. "So, what did Doyle do at the party, exactly?"

"We hung out." Nabbit replied happily. "We talked about chicks. It was good times."

"You talked about chicks?" Cordelia asked Doyle with a perfectly arched brow.

"Ah..." Doyle opened his mouth and closed it again, not entirely sure what Nabbit was referring to. In reality, they hadn't talked for very long at all, and Doyle couldn't recall any part of that conversation being about chicks... aside from the part that was about Cordelia herself. "Yeah... well, it was no big deal. I was on the clock, after all."

"It was a big deal to me." Nabbit assured him, nodding along enthusiastically. "I pay people all the time, and they don't usually hang out with me the way you did. You're a real pal."

"We did have ourselves a nice little chat." Doyle allowed, feeling more than a little uncomfortable with the idea that the guy was paying them for friendship.

"So, do you pay all your friends this well?" Cordelia asked curiously, waving around the check.

"That's just a reward for a job well done." Nabbit confirmed. "Payment for services rendered."

Doyle hated himself for what he was about to do, but considering that he was largely the reason Nabbit had written them such a hefty check, he felt an unusually overwhelming urge to be honest. "Y'know we haven't actually finished the job, yeah?"

Cordelia was still awe-struck, stealing glances at the check in her hand. At Doyle's words, she gasped and looked at him as if he'd just sprouted a second head. "Let the man reward good work, Doyle! He's clearly very smart. Genius, even. Who are we to question the methods of such a savvy businessman?"

"Oh, don't worry. There'll be another check when you're done." Nabbit assured them. "I'd never leave a friend hanging." As he said the word friend, he leaned toward Doyle and gave him a clumsy elbow jab. Really, everything the man did was painfully awkward, but considering the amount of money he'd just handed over to them, Doyle thought he probably deserved a lot more than mere friendship.

"Well, we will definitely keep up the good work!" Cordelia replied brightly, folding up the check and placing it securely in her purse. "And we would be more than happy to attend any future parties. Crab puffs or no crab puffs."

Nabbit smiled at that, but also blushed when making direct eye contact at Cordelia. She subtly elbowed Doyle to chime in and save the day.

"Ah...yeah, anytime." Doyle agreed. "We should get together and, y'know, hang out again."

* * *

"Those guys really did a number on ya." Doyle noted, as he watched Cordelia wrap a bandage around Angel's bloodied midsection and secure it tightly. "It's actually kinda impressive if ya think about it. Coming up with all that inventive stuff. Booby traps and the like."

As it turned out, tracking down Lenny Edwards had been easy; and getting the scandalous photographs from him wasn't that much more of a challenge. Unfortunately, the neighborhood where Edwards hung out was inhabited by a vampire-hunting gang who had nearly made Angel their latest kill.

"Are you really complimenting the ingenuity of a buncha hoodlums who nearly killed Angel?" Cordelia snapped, shaking her head at Doyle in exasperation. She turned back to Angel and her voice became more sympathetic in nature. "How does that feel?"

Angel grunted a reply as she secured the bandage around his ribs and grabbed a second one for his shoulder. "Not hoodlums." Angel corrected her. "Kids. Probably homeless, from the looks of things. I need to find them."

"Finding them doesn't sound like such a great plan, boss." Cordelia said, continuing to wrap Angel's wounds with sheets of gauze. "Not unless you wear a stake-proof vest under your usual black on black ensemble."

"You're thinking they're gonna get themselves killed." Doyle moved from behind Cordelia so he could sit in the chair across from Angel.

"Probably already have." Angel replied, wincing at Cordelia's less-than-gentle touch. "But, I'd like to stop any more of them from getting killed in the future. Doyle, think you can find out where they live?"

"O'course." Doyle agreed. "I'll give 'em a good talking to while I'm at it." He added sarcastically. "Angel, man. I imagine these so-called-kids have been doing this for a while. They're not gonna appreciate some older guy nosing around, telling 'em how things oughtta be done."

Cordelia placed a final piece of medical tape in place and patted Angel's shoulder, which caused him to grimace in pain. She didn't even notice as she smiled satisfactorily to herself, appreciating her own handiwork. "Doyle, didn't you used to work at a shelter, back in the day when you were an upstanding non-demon citizen?" She asked tactlessly, as was her way. "I'm sure you have lots of practice talking to homeless people."

Doyle gave her a withering look. "I volunteered to help those who came willingly. I wasn't out rounding 'em up or anything like that."

"Just find the place." Angel instructed. "I can do the talking... Wesley...?"

Angel had addressed the other man who was sitting silently on the green couch, engrossed in the pile of photos he had laid across his lap. The look on his face was something resembling horrified fascination. He didn't react to his name being called the first time, which caused Doyle to snicker knowingly.

Cordelia rolled her eyes and then wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Ew, Wesley. How long are you going to spend staring at that demon porn? I thought I was dating the only perv in the office, but apparently it's something that comes with the Y chromosome."

"Uh...I'm sorry...Did you say something?" Wesley asked, finally realizing that all eyes were on him.

"I think Cordy was disappointed to see that you're the one ogling those photos and not me." Doyle joked.

"Oh. The photographs are..." Wesley looked back down at the one in his hand and then turned it sideways, tilting his head in the opposite direction. "... _disturbing_ , to say the least." He finished, placing it back in the pile and scooping them all into a large manila envelope. "Understandable why Mr. Nabbit wouldn't want these getting out."

"Right, well, we've solved the hopeless billionaire's case, time to go back to the more typical clients of the non-paying variety." Cordelia sighed, moving to lean casually against the side of her desk, arms folded over her chest. She looked terribly disappointed, despite the rather large payday they had received earlier in the day that would ensure they wouldn't have to be declaring bankruptcy anytime soon.

"Alright, Wesley. You go with Doyle to find out where these kids are squatting. I'll take the tunnels over there, look for a place that'd make sense for a nest. I assume there's one close by, if they've been hunting for as long as it seems."

Wesley and Doyle each nodded and stood, while Angel himself also stood at a much slower pace. He was definitely going to need some time to heal—not that he'd give himself that time. "Sure ya don't need backup there, bud? You're not exactly at the top of your game." Doyle observed.

"The kids are the important thing, Doyle. You need to track them down before nightfall." Angel rationalized, gesturing for Doyle to do what he'd asked. He turned to limp away into his office.

"Well, I guess it's up to me to drive to Beverly Hills and get those photos to our client. Tough job, but someone has to do it." Cordelia mentioned, unconsciously smoothing her hair into place as she spoke.

"Angel, man, I've got a better idea. Wesley can go with you and Cordelia can come with me." Doyle suggested. "Besides, the kids might relate more to a younger face in the mix."

Angel had paused in the doorway giving Doyle a doubtful look, but he made no verbal objection to the new arrangement. Probably because he realized that he did need help for once. And finding the kids shouldn't be a dangerous job, per se. Cordelia, on the other hand, did have objections, which she was all too happy to verbalize.

"But the photos—" She objected, the smile plummeting from her face.

"Can wait." Doyle finished for her. "The kids can't. Ya heard Angel—this is important."

"Fine." Cordelia grumbled, slumping her shoulders in defeat. "But if I'm forced into feed-the-homeless duty, then we are definitely taking Angel's car."

Angel tilted his head. "Why my car?"

"Because at least I can work on my tan while I'm in your convertible." Cordelia explained reasonably.

Angel looked back in Doyle's direction and Doyle merely shrugged. If that was what it took to get her to help out, it seemed a small price to pay.

"I guess that's settled then." Doyle said. "Cordy and I will find the kids and Wesley will pull himself away from those dirty pictures long enough to go dust a few vamps."

Sure enough, Wesley had slid the pictures back out of the envelope and was peeking at the one on top. At Doyle's comment, he shoved them back inside, and tossed the envelope onto Cordelia's desk as he followed Angel into his office and onward to the elevator. "Wretched things" Wesley muttered. "It's a wonder Mr. Nabbit can still walk."

Cordelia's expression made no secret of what she thought of Wesley's trailing comments. She grabbed her purse and Angel's car keys, which had been conveniently sitting on her desk, and hooked her arm through Doyle's on the way to the front door. "I'm driving." She announced brightly.

"I don't think so. You know how Angel is about his car. Better if I drive." Doyle replied, making a grab for the keys, which she kept safely out of his reach.

" _Please._ Which one of us hasn't crashed his car into a wrought iron gate?" Cordelia asked with an arched brow. "Oh, right. That would be me!"

"Hey… I did that to save the both of you. And, it was a good gate!"


	43. War Zone, Pt 3

**"War Zone," Part III**

Cordelia drove slowly through the sketchy neighborhood where Angel had been assaulted the previous night. She was neither happy to be driving so slow, nor to be in this particular neighborhood. Doyle sat in the passenger seat and she could feel him watching her out of the corner of his eye. What was his deal anyway? Did he really think she wasn't capable of driving Angel's car responsibly?

"I'm glad you're helping out on this one, Princess." He said, as he turned away from her, scanning the warehouses and seemingly abandoned buildings all around them. She knew he was looking for any clue that one of them harbored a group of homeless teenagers—she really hoped he found it soon.

"Like I had a choice?" She responded caustically, making a right hand turn when Doyle gestured for her to do so. "I don't see why this is even a two-person job. It's a warehouse full of kids, not demons."

"If we were searching for demons, ya probably wouldn't be here." Doyle admitted. "But, a buncha kids playin' superhero, that's something you're pretty familiar with, yeah? Might even call it your area of expertise."

He had a point. Teenagers who slayed vampires in their spare time—that definitely struck a chord with Cordelia. A chord she rather not reflect on, considering how it had all ended for her. Impalement. Broken heart. Public shame. But all personal issues aside, at least back in Sunnydale she'd lived at home with her parents rather than an abandoned warehouse in the bad part of town. And she'd attended school like normal a kid. Not to mention, she had a Slayer watching her back—a Slayer who'd saved her life on more than one occasion.

So, it really wasn't the same thing at all and she wasn't sure why Doyle had been so eager for her to come along. She had to assume he just wanted her company, the same way she usually wanted his.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself." She said wryly, shooting Doyle a deliberate look. "We both know you just wanted me to come because I'm better-looking than Wesley."

"Can't disagree on that point." He replied with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. "Y'know, if ya spent half as much time working cases as ya did complaining about them, imagine all you could accomplish."

"I don't complain about working the cases!" Cordelia objected, genuinely feeling slighted by his accusation that she somehow wasn't a team player. She was _totally_ a team player, and had proved it on multiple occasions. In fact, most of her complaints were on behalf of the entire team. "I complain about the lack of paying cases. There's a difference."

"We need money to pay bills and all that—you won't find me disagreeing on that point." Doyle countered. "But I told ya why we need to keep fighting the good fight. The future's at stake here and every case matters, big and small."

"Well, maybe I wouldn't complain as much if I didn't get stuck with the ickiest jobs imaginable." Cordelia griped. "Like, why am I always on demon dismemberment duty, huh? 'Here, Cordy, take this axe and hack a slimy demon carcass into tiny pieces so it won't resurrect again.' No thanks. And now, look at us, driving through skid row searching for some smelly homeless people—in case you hadn't noticed, all there is around here is smelly homeless people. Needle in a dumpster much?"

"For starters, they'll be younger than the rest. And there'll be a bunch of 'em all together… with weapons." Doyle pointed out. She could see the semblance of a frown crossing his features. "Haven't ya ever helped someone less fortunate for no other reason than compassion? You should try it—might even find ya like it."

"Doubtful." Cordelia sniffed in reply. "I mean, I don't _not_ want to help the homeless. Assuming that helping them doesn't mean touching them in any way."

"That's a start, I suppose." Doyle said with a resigned sigh.

She cheated a glance in his direction, hating the look of dissatisfaction she saw there. It was subtle, but she knew him well enough to be able to identify it. She felt the sinking feeling in her stomach—the feeling that she wasn't living up to his expectations in some way, which was ridiculous because she was _totally_ living up to the carefully constructed expectations she'd put forth since first meeting him. By now, he should expect her to be shallow, and yet, he didn't. He expected more. He always had.

It didn't help that the part of Doyle's past she knew best, was the part where he had met his former flame… while volunteering at a homeless shelter. Once upon a time, Doyle had a lot of compassion—he enjoyed helping the less fortunate. And he'd fallen madly in love with a woman who'd enjoyed it just as much as he did. Cordelia figured that deep down Doyle was still that guy. She had to wonder if he didn't desire the same from her; if she wasn't disappointing him terribly by being vocal about her preference to be elsewhere.

So, maybe Cordelia wasn't the most compassionate person who ever lived. Maybe she wasn't all gung-ho to drive down to skid row and make nice with the homeless people. Did that make her a bad person? The fact that she was doing it despite the complete lack of desire to do so, should count for something. Just like all the other things she did that she really didn't want to be doing—like cleaning Doyle's apartment, for example. She supposed she just wanted to make him happy, wanted him to see the best in her.

"Listen, I'm all for the good fight, I just prefer cases that let me play to my strengths." Cordelia explained matter-of-factly, noticing that Doyle had given up on trying to persuade her on the worthiness of the cause. "I'm much better suited for actual investigatory work or, better yet, anything that lets me use my acting skills—you still think I'm a good actress, don't you, Doyle?"

The question was a purposefully leading one, and was loaded with subtext. After the whole Angelus debacle, Cordelia hadn't talked much about the current state of her acting career, not even with Doyle. She'd purposely not brought it up to avoid any rehashing of events from that night. Right now, however, it seemed like the perfect way to take the spotlight off the fact that Cordelia wasn't quite as altruistic as the former Mrs. Doyle.

"You're flawless in my eyes." Doyle said sincerely, although she could tell it wasn't necessarily her acting skills he was referring to. And just like that, her insecurities evaporated into thin air. She never had to worry about him seeing the best in her; he'd been seeing it long before she'd ever thought about showing it.

Cordelia pulled the car over and put it in park, then turned to look Doyle directly in the eye. She felt the warmth in her cheeks and suspected she was blushing. "Yeah?" She asked, allowing a hesitant smile to appear on her lips. "Even if I'm not Little Miss Homeless-shelter-volunteer? You're not… _disappointed_?"

"I'm not trying to change who you are, love." Doyle assured her. She could see that he was telling the truth and it made the blood rush even faster through her veins. At moments like these, she could feel the love and acceptance pouring right out of him, and she never had to wonder why she'd fallen so hard herself. "Though if _you_ feel like there's something that needs changing, that's for you to figure out. I'll love ya either way."

Cordelia melted at his words and was now openly beaming at him. The truth was, she did like helping people. She did think she had a knack for it. Maybe helping the homeless would never be her hobby of choice—she'd still prefer shopping, or giving herself a manicure, or just about anything else—but she would never turn her back on someone in need. Not if there was something she could do to help. And as long as she never had to admit that out loud, she'd always do whatever was asked of her in the name of helping others.

"Well… I did change the future." Cordelia reasoned. "So, who knows what will happen. Speaking of changing the future—I am sorta glad I came with you. I mean, you never know when I'll need to save your life again, right?"

By now, Doyle was wearing a broad grin. She basked in the glow of his approval once more. "You'll be keeping an eye on me, is that right?" He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement.

"We'll keep an eye on each other." She answered sincerely, with obvious double-meaning. "Except for right now, when you should probably be using both eyes to search for those kids, while I use mine to guard Angel's car."

Guarding Angel's car translated to basking in the sun without having to move a muscle, of course.

"It just so happens I've got an acting job for ya, if you're up to the challenge." Doyle said with a smirk, nodding toward a grizzled old man, pushing a shopping cart. "Go act like ya wanna talk to that guy, and see if he knows anything 'bout a gang of teenagers running around here."

Cordelia's eyes darted to the man in question. She noted the dirty rags he was dressed in and the thick, unruly beard. She didn't try to hide her revulsion—this was asking a little much. "You know what? I'll take a pass."

"Oh no, Princess, that wasn't a request." Doyle asserted, opening the door to get out of the car. "I'm going across the street to check for power taps on the side of that building. Time to play to those strengths, yeah?"

He slammed the door shut, and crossed the street before she could object for a second time. She turned her head to stare at the dirty homeless man who was wheeling his cart directly toward her. "Oh, brother…"

* * *

"Are you sure someone actually lives here?" Cordelia was aghast as she followed closely on Doyle's heels, taking in the filthy surroundings. "This place should be condemned, if it isn't already. And...ewwww, I just saw a rat!" She leaped onto his back, practically forcing him to give her a piggyback. He grunted with the impact, but kept moving forward.

"Yeah... not exactly sanitary living conditions 'round these parts." Doyle observed, his voice sounding not nearly as appalled as hers. "At least there's a roof overhead."

"I don't think it'll be staying there much longer." Cordelia worried, looking up to see patches of pale light filtering through the ceiling. "I thought my first apartment was bad, but compared to this, it was the Taj Mahal."

"When ya think ya have it bad, remember someone always has it worse." Doyle agreed, reaching his arm behind him to place it comfortingly on her arm. "If my visions have shown me anything, it's that."

"Okay, so if they live here, then where are they? It's almost sundown—do you think they already went out vampire-hunting?"

"Seems that way." Doyle admitted with concern. "Hopefully, Angel and Wesley already found the nest and cleared it out by now."

"I hope Angel cleared _himself_ out." Cordelia added. "Kids or not, they don't pull any punches when dealing with the fanged population."

"Wait..." Doyle stopped short, causing Cordelia to stumble into him. She braced herself against his back to stay steady, and watched as he lifted his index finger into the air. "Ya hear that?"

She listened to the dripping of water and shuffling of rodents and then she heard something else... something banging repeatedly. The sound was coming from down the long corridor ahead of them, and Doyle began creeping toward it. She kept close to him as he moved, although she wasn't entirely sure they should be going toward the banging rather than away from it.

They came to a room featuring a large meat locker—apparently, the source of said banging. Then Cordelia saw it—the fist that was smashing through the wall beside it. A fist that most likely belonged to someone not quite human. "Angel?" She wondered out loud.

Doyle must have known it was Angel all along, since he didn't hesitate to step forward and open the door, revealing a very agitated vampire, sporting a bloody fist. Wesley had been sitting dejectedly on the floor behind Angel, but stood quickly once Doyle opened the locked door.

"Guessing ya had that chat and it didn't go so well, huh?" Doyle asked rhetorically.

"We have to get moving." Angel said abruptly, already halfway to the door. "Those kids are walking themselves right into a massacre!"

"You're welcome!" Cordelia called after Angel's retreating form, which was already long gone. She huffed at his rudeness and turned toward Wesley. "Guess he doesn't want a ride."

"He moves quite quickly through those tunnels. I could hardly keep up and I imagine he wasn't moving nearly as fast as he normally would." Wesley admitted. "I can get us there by car."

The three of them hurriedly made their way back through the building and toward Angel's car, which was parked on the street outside.

"What happened, exactly?" Doyle posed the question to Wesley. "How'd ya get locked in?"

"And why didn't you call for help?" Cordelia added, pulling out her cellphone and waving it in the air. "I know Angel is a hopeless technophobe, but I expect more from you, Wesley."

"As it so happens, meat lockers have very poor cell phone reception." Wesley told her peevishly. "As for the rest of it—well, Doyle was quite right. The leader of the gang—Gunn is what they call him—he wasn't interested in listening to reason. Not after the vampires attacked the place."

"Gunn?!" Cordelia asked in surprise. "Do you think that's spelled with one N or two?"

Doyle and Wesley both gave her matching puzzled looks as they exited the front door of the building. She kept her eyes glued to Doyle's as they all moved in unison toward Angel's car. Wesley got into the driver's seat and Cordelia willingly climbed into the back seat, but she leaned close to Doyle's ear and whispered. " _Gunn_. He's in the notebook."

She watched as Doyle's eyebrows raised in recognition, and he gave her a silent approving nod.

Apparently Doyle's notebook of chaos really did tell the future—it was still relevant. Angel crossing paths with a man named Gunn, couldn't merely be a coincidence. Cordelia didn't know what that meant exactly, since she hadn't read enough of the notebook to know what kind of role Gunn was supposed to play in their lives. She looked at Doyle's face, twisted in deep thought and knew he'd do the right thing—the Oracles and Angel trusted him to do the right thing, and so did she.


	44. War Zone, Pt 4

**"War Zone," Part IV**

Wesley led the charge into the vampires' lair with Doyle and Cordelia only a few steps behind him. They could all hear voices and shuffling from the room up ahead, and the echoing footsteps of more bodies flooding into the room from all directions. Doyle didn't need to morph into his demon form to sense the presence of not only the entire gang of teenagers, but also the occupants of said lair.

Wesley slowed his pace as he came to the wide open area where Angel stood several feet away from a tall, dark-skinned young man wearing a dew rag. On one end, the vampires came creeping out of the shadows, and on the other, the teenagers stood their ground, weapons in hand. It reminded Doyle of a scene from that old film, _West Side Story_.

The only thing separating the two groups was Angel and his lone companion, who looked distracted, to say the least. The vampires' leader, balding and unassuming if he wasn't wearing his vamp face, was at the head of the pack. He stepped up to the young man tauntingly. "She was so sweet, your sister. So smooth going down, if you know what I mean. You wanted a war? Well, this is it."

Angel turned toward the vampires calmly, his back to the one who was clearly the leader. "Here's the deal. You can go."

"What?" The balding vampire leader asked, offended by Angel's audacity.

" _If_ you go now—and I don't ever see any of you again—you get to live." Angel continued, without turning to the apoplectic vampire behind him.

"Are you high?" Bald-guy squawked.

Doyle stepped in front of Wesley, inching closer to the warring factions, making sure that Angel knew he wasn't alone—making sure the vampires knew Angel wasn't alone. A few of them took note of him, particularly from the human end of the room—the gang leader, in particular, trained his eyes on the three people who had come to back up Angel. Wesley and Cordelia each stood at Doyle's side, presenting a united front. They each had grabbed a weapon from the trunk of Angel's car. In Doyle's case, it was merely a stake, but both Wesley and Cordelia held crossbows that were now trained on the cluster of vampires.

Then again, Angel wasn't doing half bad on his own. "L.A. is my territory, you want to stay out of it for the rest of your eternal lives. These kids, my town, off limits from now on."

"Who the hell are you? You know who you're talking to, you fool?" Bald-guy challenged.

"The name's Angelus." Angel said, turning and staking the leader without missing a beat. "And I wasn't actually talking to you." Angel turned back to the rest of the supernatural crowd, spinning the stake between his fingers and giving a nearly imperceptible nod in the direction of Doyle and his other companions. "So, do we have a truce? Or do you wanna die?"

The vampires were left looking dumbly at each other, shifting uncomfortably in the silence that had settled in the wake of Angel's threat.

A member of the teen gang stepped out of the crowd. "Truce?" He addressed the tall man in the center of the room. "We can take 'em! We don't need no help from these fools."

The fools in question, were Doyle, Wesley and Cordelia who hadn't moved from their defensive stance. Angel had stepped closer to the gang leader, responding to the mouthy guy behind him. "Not without them taking a couple of you."

"Gunn, you came all this way, you're not gonna kill any vamps?"

Both Doyle and Cordelia turned their heads simultaneously, checking out the gang leader, now identified as Gunn. Doyle stared at the young man curiously, wondering if it was possible this person would play a significant role in their future. Under the circumstances, it seemed unlikely. Yet, there was something in Gunn's eyes—a haunted look that Doyle recognized all too well. Perhaps, he was a kindred spirit, a fellow warrior, meant to join their fight. Driven by his own loss, which still lay fresh in the ashes at his feet. "I already did." He said, keeping his eyes focused on Angel in a silent communication.

With that, Gunn turned to go and the gang members behind him followed his example. So too, the vampires retreated one by one until no one was left aside from Angel, standing still with his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes trained on the floor. Wesley and Cordelia had lowered their crossbows and slowly followed as Doyle approached their boss in the center of the room.

"Good work, man." Doyle enthused. "Everyone walked outta here."

"Not everyone." Angel corrected, directing his eyes to the telltale pile of dust on the floor. "That was Gunn's sister. He staked her himself."

Cordelia and Wesley both wore grave expressions, and Doyle bowed his head in silent reverence of the fallen soldier. "That's rough, man." Doyle replied mournfully. "But, y'know, you can't save everyone all the time."

"No one knows that better than me." Angel said, giving Doyle a meaningful look and then walking away.

* * *

Doyle took the two paper cups of coffee from the street vendor, grimacing as they each burned his palms. Cordelia was beside him offering two insulation wraps. He slipped her cup of coffee into the wrap in her right hand and retrieved the other insulator for his own cup. They then turned away from the vendor and strolled quietly through the sunny park.

In typical L.A. fashion, it was 75 degrees and there was a cloudless blue sky above. Cordelia and Doyle had just dropped off the incriminating photographs to an extremely thankful David Nabbit, who had supplied them with yet another jaw-dropping check full of surplus zeros. Rather than head back to their stuffy little office, the couple had opted to stretch their legs and partake in a celebratory caffeine boost.

Doyle slipped his arm around Cordelia's waist, and spoke close to her ear. "Penny for your thoughts, love. I've never known ya to be the laconic type."

"Oh, I was just thinking about those kids. I mean, I thought life was cruel to me—with the IRS taking away everything I had on account of Daddy's little tax issues—even my precious Palomino, Keanu... but, those kids don't have anything at all. Not even parents to royally screw them up." She looked convincingly melancholic as she spoke. "I knew homeless people existed, I guess I just never thought they'd be so young, or that it wouldn't really be their fault, y'know?"

Doyle smiled warmly at her, and gently guided her to an empty bench up ahead. "Ya thought they were all drunks, drug addicts and crazies, did ya?" He asked, sitting down and drawing her down beside him. She sat close, letting him keep his arm around her as they both settled in and sipped from their coffee cups.

"Well, if I'm being honest..." She answered with a guilty smile.

"Mmm." Doyle sipped his hot beverage, careful not to burn his tongue. "Everyone's dealt their own hand in the poker game we call life. Some are doomed from the start, others can manage to turn things around."

"Some bluff." She said jokingly, giving him a knowing poke in the chest.

"That's an accurate assessment, if ever I heard one." Doyle smiled, accepting the label. "And some are lucky enough to have those aces ready and waiting."

"I used to have that, but the aces went back to the dealer." She lamented, leaning back and extending her legs out in front of her. "So… I heard you tell Angel to ask that Gunn guy for help in the future. Does that mean he's gonna become our friend or something?"

"Or something." Doyle echoed. "He's meant to be a part of the team, as far as I can tell."

"But you're not sure?" Cordelia wondered. "His future with us isn't that clear?"

Doyle shrugged as he sipped absently from his coffee cup and took notice of a couple of squirrels chasing each other up a tree trunk across the way. "Nothing about the future is clear. It's all a guessing game. Just hope I'm guessing right."

Cordelia took that in, sighing softly to herself. She closed her eyes and laid her head back, letting the sun reflect off her smooth skin. Doyle sat relaxing beside her, his arm extended on the back of the bench behind her shoulders. It was a stolen moment of near-perfection—the two of them enjoying a beautiful day, without a care in the world. It wasn't liable to last long, but for now it was more than enough.

The silence passed comfortably, as Doyle drank his coffee and people-watched, but Cordelia broke it quite suddenly without opening her eyes or moving from her sunbathing position. "Would you mind if I prostituted myself out to David Nabbit?"

Doyle arched a brow. Although, he'd been feeling a little insecure when it came to Cordelia's interest in Nabbit's bank account, he found himself chuckling at what was clearly said in jest. "Ah... I was seriously considering doing the same thing myself."

She sat up straight, opening her eyes and tilting her head in Doyle's direction. "In that case, I approve wholeheartedly. Assuming I get a cut."

"Does that make ya my pimp?" Doyle countered, smirking at the mental imagery.

"I prefer business partner." Cordelia teased in reply. "Pimp sounds so dirty."

The laughter eventually died, allowing the silence to envelop them once again. Doyle felt her back brush against his arm, and the electricity flowed from her into him—that invisible force of nature that had brought them together and made it hard for them to be apart. He had been around long enough to know how rare it was to find chemistry like theirs, but he also knew that chemistry, while powerful, couldn't overcome certain obstacles. For Doyle, there was no doubt—he loved Cordelia, and would fight any obstacle to remain with her, but the fight would only go so far, if she wasn't on the same side of it.

"Do ya regret dating a guy without a penny to his name?" Doyle asked, his gaze landing somewhere in the grass beyond his feet. Although, it was a very real concern, he kept his voice purposely blasé.

She didn't answer right away, shifting her body so it was pressed up against his side, her head landed just below his chin. "You'll have several pennies to your name once you cash your next paycheck." She teased lightly, but the undercurrent of warmth wasn't lost on him.

"Ah... that I will." He said good-naturedly. "And I'm guessing it's high time I took ya out for a nice dinner that I actually _can_ afford, yeah?"

"That would go a long way in the me-not-regretting things department." Cordelia agreed, lifting her head and turning to face him. The smile on her lips warmed him more than the sun overhead. His eyes were drawn to it and he leaned forward to place a soft kiss there. She surprised him by kissing him back more heatedly than he expected—a silent answer to his previously asked question. There were a lot of emotions he could glean from her kiss, regret wasn't one of them.

He pulled back and smiled down at her, enjoying the fire he saw in her hazel eyes.

"Alright, darlin', prepare yourself to be wined and dined proper-like. Friday night." He knocked on the side of his head. "Assumin' the Powers That Be don't say otherwise."

"Oh, they'd better not even _think_ of ruining another date-night." Cordelia scolded the empty air over their heads, raising a threatening finger to the heavens. "Or they're gonna have something truly evil on their hands. Hell hath no fury like a Cordelia Chase scorned!"

* * *

 **A/N - *taps microphone* Is this thing on? Hey, lovely readers. It's been a while since I said hello and thanked you all for sticking with this one. We're in the home stretch now, with only two more episodes left of season one! I plan to have the whole thing posted before the end of the month. I know, I'm excited!**


	45. Blind Date, Pt 1

**"Blind Date," Part I**

The waves of pleasure still pulsed throughout both their bodies as Doyle let his weight bear down on the soft flesh below him, only bracing himself enough not to crush her completely. He was enjoying her touch and her aroma, and the sound of her heart thudding against her chest, and of course, he could see the beautiful flush of color in her cheeks. He kissed her neck at that moment in order to taste the salt of her skin as well, fully immersing all five of his senses with _Cordelia_. It was his favorite thing to do.

A light ringing started to permeate into his perfect bubble of Cordelia-ness, and although it took him a moment to place the sound, he soon realized it was emanating from his cell phone, which was still in the pocket of his jacket somewhere on the other side of the room.

Impeccable timing, as always. At least it was a phone call and not a vision.

He kissed her soft flesh one last time, before beginning to roll off of her. He felt her clench around him in objection. "No… don't you dare answer that."

Despite her protest, he continued the arduous process of extracting his body from her bed. He never actually wanted to leave the soft, warm cocoon of her covers, and definitely didn't want to leave with her objecting so vehemently. "Sorry, love. I have to. Angel wouldn't call if it wasn't important."

"How do you even know it's Angel?" She asked sulkily.

He jumped from the bed, unclothed, and quickly located his jacket and the ringing object seeking his attention. "The only other person who calls me is you." He pointed out, right before flipping the phone open on what must've been close to its last ring and putting it to his ear. "Hey, man…. I was awake, yeah… No, not busy at all, just nowhere near the phone. What's up?"

Cordelia remained in the bed behind him, making her displeasure readily known with a dramatic huff of air. Doyle turned his back on her, so he could focus on Angel's choppy voice coming through the rather poor connection.

"Ah…yeah, think I know the place. I can come meet ya… no, no, it'll be quicker if I come to you." Doyle listened for another moment, keeping his back purposely turned away from his unhappy girlfriend. "Gimme fifteen minutes or so…. Yeah, okay."

He hung up the phone and turned to Cordelia with an apologetic look. She was half-sitting up and shaking her head back and forth in further objection. "No, Doyle. No!" She argued, before he could even say a word. "You need to call Angel back and tell him you can't help him kill whatever it is he wants to kill tonight."

"Cordelia…" Doyle pleaded as he moved toward his boxers, which had been discarded on the opposite end of the room.

"You lied to him. He asked if you were busy, which you most certainly are." She insisted. "We were right in the middle of something very important."

"Don't mean to get technical, darlin', but the middle came and went—we both finished, yeah?" Doyle countered, stepping into his boxers and grabbing his pants to also hop into them, one leg at a time.

"What about the cuddling?" Cordelia complained, pouting at him cutely. He had to avert his eyes again or else she'd win and Angel would be out one much-needed sidekick. "Cuddling is usually part of the post-coital package. And pillow talk—don't forget about that. Those are the crucial elements that separate girlfriend from floozy, y'know."

"I'll owe ya extra cuddling next time, so you'll feel less floozy-like." Doyle replied with a chuckle. He zipped his pants and spun around to locate his t-shirt. "Trust me, Cordy, if Angel called, it's not just 'cause he wants to hear my voice in the middle of the night. He needs help."

She folded her arms over her chest, which was now covered by the blanket she had pulled up nearly to her chin. "There's nothing he can't fight that you _can._ " She said huffily.

"Well, it's not always about the physical help, y'know, sometimes the guy just needs some moral support. In fact, that's a big part of my job." Doyle explained, retrieving his shirt from under the bed where it had landed and slipping it on over his head. "Angel needs to be reminded that this whole good fight thing isn't just for show. There's a higher purpose and all that."

"And you're the _only_ one who can remind him of that." She stated dully, clearly having heard him say this many times before. Enough that she could probably recite it by heart. "There isn't, say, a stuffier, more British individual who doesn't have a sex life to interrupt who could remind him instead?"

"You can remind him, too." Doyle winked at her as he grabbed his button down shirt and leather jacket and leaned over to kiss her quickly on the forehead, since he strongly doubted that she'd offer her lips. "I love—"

"Don't say it." Cordelia cut him off. "You're just saying it because you wanna keep me from being mad at you."

"Ah… Princess, that's just not true." Doyle replied, cocking his head at her sincerely. "Ya can be mad all ya want, but when I say 'I love you,' it's 'cause I mean it. I wouldn't say it otherwise."

He watched her face become slightly paler at his words, and it occurred to him that he had just turned a spotlight on the proverbial elephant that followed them a lot these days—the fact that she'd never said she loved him back.

Doyle cleared his throat uncomfortably, quickly averting his eyes to his shoes, which he had yet to put on his feet. "Get yourself some sleep now." He said, hurrying toward the shoes and slipping his feet into them.

"Doyle?" She said from behind him. "I…"

He turned to cast a glance over his shoulder and saw that she had bit down on lower lip, stopping herself from saying whatever she had intended to say. Then she breathed out and started over. "I'll be asleep when you get back. Try to be quiet, okay?" She said, making it clear that her anger was merely superficial, and that he was still very much welcome in her bed that evening.

"Quiet as a mouse." He promised, with an assuring smile, before turning to the bedroom door and seeing himself out.

* * *

"Cordelia is pissed, isn't she?"

"Ah… don't worry 'bout it, man. If she wasn't mad at me for this, I'm sure there'd be something else. I'm fairly gifted in the art of gettin' under Cordy's skin—for better or for worse."

"You should've just told me you were busy." Angel said, as the two men headed toward the warehouse where Angel had discovered a nest of vampires, ripe for the dusting.

Doyle hadn't intended for Angel to know what he'd been doing before he arrived to help, but he hadn't exactly had time to shower, and even if he had showered it may not have made a difference. Vampire senses were pretty powerful. As was Angel's sense of intuition.

"Ya said there are over a dozen vamps, yeah? Even if ya could take most of 'em on your own, why risk it?" Doyle reasoned. "That's what I'm here for… and, y'know, if ya need to talk or whatever. You can do that, too."

"Why would I need to talk?" Angel asked impassively. "Did you come tonight because you thought I wanted to talk?"

"I thought talking might be good for ya." Doyle admitted. "It's been a while since we had a real chat—you and me. I can start, if ya like."

Angel shook his head in mild perplexity, as he slid open the door to the warehouse. "As long as you can talk and stake at the same time."

Angel didn't have to walk that far into the warehouse before two vampires were charging toward him. He easily sidestepped them and called over his shoulder to Doyle. "Those are yours." He said, as he raced forward clothes-pinning two other vamps and staking a third. Doyle was knocked over by one of the two vampires Angel had designated as "his," but he'd been expecting it, and therefore, was able to maintain his human form and still roll out from under the guy.

As Angel had previously indicated, it was a young nest. There was probably an elder somewhere amongst them, but the majority of them were young and stupid—as vamps went, they weren't the hardest ones to dispose of. Doyle leaped upward and staked the second vampire who had basically walked into his outstretched stake and then he spun back to the one who had tackled him and staked him successfully as well. With those two gone, he followed in the direction that Angel had gone, hearing sounds of struggle along the way.

Doyle entered a wide area in the center of the warehouse, where bales of hay were strewn about. He saw Angel fighting with no less than three vampires. A fourth one came out from behind a mound of hay to hit Doyle with a mean right cross. Okay, this guy seemed slightly more formidable than the dopes he'd met in the doorway, but he still wasn't as old or strong as Angel. Doyle socked him back and managed to step out of the way of the next punch.

"So…" Doyle heard Angel ask, as he tossed one of the vampires across the room and staked another. "Tonight aside… you and Cordelia are doing well?"

Doyle ducked another swing. "Yeah, man. Things couldn't be better. Except—" He tackled the vampire below the knees in order to knock him to the ground.

"Except what?" Angel probed, taking out another vampire and whirling around to catch the guy he'd previously thrown across the room.

"Oh, well, there's that one piece—ugh!" Doyle grunted out his reply as he struggled on the floor with the vampire, losing the stake and scrambling to try and reclaim it. "… One piece she's still holding back. That's all."

Angel staked the third vampire and was about to come to Doyle's aid, when yet another guy leaped down from the beams above their heads. Angel was yanked back, and forced to tussle with him. "What piece?" He called, taking a punch to the gut, and then returning one of his own.

Doyle couldn't answer as he stretched his arm to its limit to get ahold of the stake and rolled on top of the vampire he was struggling with to send the stake directly through its heart. Doyle landed with a thud on a pile of newly formed dust and coughed as he inhaled some of it. He rolled on his back, catching his breath. "It's just that… well, as far as I can tell the feelings are there, y'know, she's just not real big on verbalizing them."

Angel flipped the vampire he was fighting on its back and staked it as well, bending over to place his hands on his knees. He gave himself a moment to recover. "I get it." He replied, standing back up and walking over to Doyle to offer a hand. "She hasn't said she loves you, yet. Is that what you mean?"

Doyle stood up with Angel's assistance, and brushed some of the dust off his clothing. "That's the gist of it, yeah." Doyle admitted, then looked around the now empty warehouse. "How many was that? Did we get 'em all?"

"I think there are two more." Angel answered, not seeming terribly concerned about finding them. It was a good bet that they'd either make themselves known soon or they were already long gone. "It bothers you? That Cordelia won't tell you she loves you."

"I'm trying not to let it bother me, man." Doyle confessed, as they sauntered back toward the center of the room and leaned against the bales of hay piled there. "I get the feeling she grew up in a house where they weren't big on saying it. Doesn't sound like there were a lot of boyfriends whispering sweet nothings to her in the past either. It's really no wonder she keeps her feelings to herself."

"She'll say it." Angel assured him. "Give her time."

"Oh, I'm a patient man." Doyle professed with a chuckle. "I'm not looking to rush anything. I love her enough for the both of us. But, I'd be lying if I said it doesn't get a bit awkward when I tell her as much." Doyle shifted his weight. "Ah… listen to me, man. Going on and on about my love life. Not really fair, considering who I'm talking to."

"You should definitely be talking to me about it." Angel replied evenly. "Living vicariously through your love life is the only way I get to have one."

"Okay, that's… _really_ sad, man." Doyle noted, crinkling his forehead sympathetically.

Angel only smiled in reply, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the bales of hay behind him.

Suddenly, a groan from the far end of the room attracted the attention of both men and they leaped to their feet heading in the direction of the sound. A man came into view, hunched over and holding his bleeding abdomen. He slid down the wall near the entrance, and remained in an unmoving heap.

Wordlessly, Doyle and Angel rushed toward him to see if he was still alive, when a blurry form came out of nowhere and pinned Angel to the wall, holding him by the throat. The blurry figure appeared to be a woman. She let go and Angel came back swinging, but she easily ducked out of the way of each of his blows. Doyle stepped up from behind to land his own punch, but she ducked that one too, and spun around kicking Doyle from behind and sent him sprawling face first on the floor. She then spun back in the other direction, and ducked another of Angel's blows, although he did manage to knock her glasses off, revealing her milky white irises. She then used her cane to slam Angel backwards into the far wall and was gone before he could get back to his feet. It took Doyle slightly longer to pull himself upright, having had the wind knocked out of him and his lip split open on the hard floor.

"You alright?" Angel asked, coming up beside Doyle and staring out into the inky blackness of the night outside the warehouse door.

"Yeah, but can't say the same for that guy." Doyle said pointing to the now clearly dead body at their feet. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but did we just get our asses handed to us by a blind lady?"

"Looks that way." Angel said.

"As puns go that wasn't a very good one." Doyle remarked, leveling Angel with a critical gaze. He gingerly lifted a hand to wipe the small trickle of blood from his lip, and licked the already swelling lip.

"That wasn't a pun." Angel answered distractedly. "We should go. Nothing else we can do here. I'll call in an anonymous tip so the police find the body."

Doyle frowned down at the corpse at his feet. They'd never had a chance to save the guy, and it still somehow felt like a loss. That was one part of the job he'd never get used to—being the hero who couldn't save the day.

* * *

"I can start by searching for blind demons." Wesley spoke as he jotted a few notes down on a legal pad, and stood from the chair behind Cordelia's desk. The owner of said desk, stood nearby tapping her foot and frowning at the tall Brit who was still blocking her path and apparently not moving fast enough for her liking.

"I don't think she was a demon." Doyle replied over his shoulder as he poured himself a cup of the office special brew, which was tough on the esophagus and even tougher on the stomach lining. "Seemed human to me."

"Could you... uh, sense that she was human?" Wesley asked curiously, gesturing to his nose to indicate just what he was insinuating.

The fact of the matter was, Doyle hadn't been in his demon form when fighting the blind woman, so he really _shouldn't_ have been able to answer such a question. However, he had sensed that she was human. And it was more than a little unsettling that he found it possible to do that. Especially considering how attuned he'd been lately to things like poisoned arrows flying through the air, and vampires sneaking out of the shadows. None of those things should have been possible for Doyle without spikes present on his face, and yet he very rarely sported the spikes.

"I could." Angel confirmed, pulling Doyle back into reality. "She was human... as far as I could tell."

"Unless getting tossed around like a rag doll messed with your vampire senses." Cordelia noted, finally being able to reclaim her seat behind the desk as Wesley moved aside. "Maybe this is something you can ask Lieutenant Blondie about?"

"Kate and I aren't on the best of terms, right now." Angel responded, his usually furrowed brow becoming slightly more furrowed at the mention of his ex-ally.

"He's still sore 'bout her offer to help him work on his tan." Doyle sassed, already making his way across the room to sidle up beside Cordelia. He gestured to the keyboard at her fingertips. "Why don't ya plug in a few keywords and see what comes up? I can't imagine there's a lot in the way of blind female assassins."

Cordelia tapped the keys at a respectable pace—if nothing else, her typing skills had surely improved after many months on the job. Maybe someday there would be a marked improvement in her coffee-making skills as well.

"Do we suppose she had the aid of a spell?" Wesley pondered. "Something that would enhance the senses, or restore one that was lost?"

"Maybe she's like Daredevil." Doyle suggested. What he got in reply were three blank expressions, looking for further explanation. "Comic book references tend to fall on deaf ears with this group, huh? It's Batman or nothing."

"Think of who you're talking to, Doyle. Those two refuse to read anything published within this century. And I actually used to have an active social life prior to this job." Cordelia commented dryly, hitting enter on the keyboard. She sat up abruptly as the screen filled with results. "There. Vanessa Brewer. She's our girl."

Both Doyle and Wesley leaned over her shoulders to see the information on the screen.

"Are you quite certain?" Wesley asked, squinting down at the computer monitor. "That seems too easy."

"Like I said, not likely to be a lotta them." Doyle repeated, gesturing to the screen with his half-empty coffee mug. "That's her alright and she's been charged before. Currently on trial for a homicide from last year."

"She's out on bail. That's why she was free to kick your respective butts last night." Cordelia said, pointing to a line of text on the screen. She gave a low whistle. "That's _some_ bail."

Angel had been quietly listening as he leaned in the doorway leading to his office. "Do I even need to ask who's representing her?"

"Not unless ya want me to state the incredibly obvious, man." Doyle retorted, standing up straight and giving Angel a pointed look.

"Good." Angel said, pulling a pair of dark glasses out of his pocket. "I was hoping I'd have a chance to return these."


	46. Blind Date, Pt 2

**"Blind Date," Part II**

A loud crash emanated from inside Angel's office, causing all three occupants of the outer office to simultaneously jump.

"I think that's bad news." Cordelia frowned from her place beside Doyle on the little green couch. They had both been sitting there with their feet up on the coffee table in front of them, while Wesley paced the floorboards anxiously. She pushed on Doyle's shoulder, forcing him off the couch. "You'd better go in there and find out what happened."

"Why me?" Doyle shot back, although his objection was mostly just for show, since he had already moved to stand up.

"He's less likely to bite your head off." Cordelia claimed. "In fact, he's less likely to bite any part of you since he doesn't drink demon blood." She smiled cutely and then stuck out her tongue. Doyle rolled his eyes in reply, but crossed the room and opened the door to Angel's office all the same.

"They acquitted her!" Angel's exasperated voice boomed from behind his desk, even before Doyle was all the way inside the room. "Hung jury."

"Can't say I'm surprised." Doyle remarked cautiously, placing his hands on the back of one of the empty chairs in front of Angel's desk. "They'd have probably become a literal hung jury if they indicted her. Wolfram & Hart woulda seen to that."

"How am I supposed to fight evil if they're gonna let it walk right back out on to the street?!" Angel banged his fist down on his desk in frustration. "I watched her kill a man, and there's absolutely nothing I can do! I can't testify."

"Well, don't look at me, man! Even if I did testify, it wouldn't make a difference. Wolfram & Hart's got the deck stacked." Doyle pointed out.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Angel asked, clearly annoyed by the further reminder of just how powerless he was in this situation.

"Not better, no." Doyle reasoned. "But maybe it'll keep ya from beating up on the office furniture." He gestured to the broken remnants of Angel's desk phone that had been the source of the crash from a few minutes earlier.

Wesley had come to stand in the doorway. "You fight evil in other ways, Angel." He quietly argued, keeping his voice low and calm. "As with any war, there are certain battles you win, certain ones you lose and still others you don't get to participate in."

"The man makes a good point." Doyle agreed. "The war's still waging—we haven't lost that yet. And maybe you'll get another chance to win this particular battle using your fists and fangs and possibly some medieval weaponry of some sort, yeah?"

"Uh... guys?" Cordelia's voice called from the outer office, and Doyle could hear the level of seriousness in it, even before she stepped into view behind Wesley gesturing to an unseen figure beside her. "We have company."

The good-looking, brown-haired man who appeared beside her was the last person Doyle expected to see, but he felt his fists clench involuntarily as the smug bastard took a step forward, hovering just outside Angel's office doorway. "I need your help." He said.

Lindsey McDonald. One of Wolfram & Hart's rising stars, and one of the biggest thorns in Angel's side.

"What the hell?" Doyle muttered, not bothering to hide his disdain for the well-dressed man in the doorway. "Think ya made a helluva wrong turn somewhere, bud."

Angel was a tad bit more diplomatic, although there was an undercurrent of a threat in his voice. "What do you mean you need our help?"

"I mean..." Lindsey said, stepping fully into the office, right past Wesley who had backed out slightly. "I want out."

"Ya expect us to believe that?!" Doyle bit back sarcastically. "Sorry, but I don't think guys like you suddenly grow a conscience. How could ya, when that place owns whatever soul ya used to have?"

"Are you going to hear me out? Or are you gonna let your lap dog continue to yap at me?" Lindsey asked, directing his condescending question to Angel. "Trust me, you're gonna wanna hear this."

"No one 'round here's liable to trust ya as far as they can throw ya." Doyle gritted back. "But, I'd like to try that latter part."

"There are children's lives at stake." Lindsey stated, without missing a beat, still keeping his eyes focused solely on Angel.

Angel held up a hand toward Doyle and motioned for him to close the office door. "You have five minutes to convince me not to kick you right back to the curb."

Doyle met the curious eyes of both Cordelia and Wesley as he shut Angel's door and made his way behind the desk, to lean against the file cabinet and observe Lindsey from over Angel's shoulder. He folded his arms and leveled the slime-ball with his most disapproving glare.

Lindsey returned Doyle's glare, making sure he knew the feelings of burning hatred were quite mutual. He then leaned his hands against the edge of Angel's desk, and attempted to sound slightly less antagonistic than before. "Listen, I don't want to be here any more than you want me here. But, I had no choice."

Doyle snorted derisively at that comment and although Angel kept the visible reaction to a minimum, the contempt in his voice left no question as to what he also thought of Lindsey. "You always have a choice. Just like I have the choice as to whether or not to kill you, right here, right now."

"You're not gonna kill me." Lindsey rebutted, without the slightest hint of fear. "You're the good guy, remember? That's how I knew I could walk in here and tell you what I know about Vanessa Brewer's next contract, and trust that you'd do the right thing."

"Vanessa Brewer? You mean the murderer you got off today?" Angel shook his head in disbelief. "You know what, Doyle, maybe you _should_ see how far you can throw him."

"That's right. Act like you're better'n me 'cause I did what I had to do to make something of myself. What was your father? He was a merchant, right? Linen and silk? Did pretty well? Had a couple of servants until you killed them?"

"Just the one." Angel replied without emotion.

"Well, our files aren't 100 percent, but I guess it's fair to say that you've never seen anything like real poverty. I'm talking dirt poor—no shoes, no toilet. Six of us kids in a room, and come flu season it was down to four. I was seven when they took the house."

Angel placed a hand on the bridge of his nose, rubbing the ache away. He held out a hand to stop Lindsey from going on. "I'm sorry, I must've nodded off. Did you get to the part where you're evil?"

"Growing up poor isn't an excuse for killing people on your way up the ladder." Doyle piped up from behind Angel. "I never had anything I didn't work for, and I didn't have to sell my soul to get it."

Lindsey scanned Doyle up and down as if to say he'd made his own point, clearly having nothing Lindsey was at all interested in, but he thought better of verbalizing anything close to that. "I've never killed anyone." Lindsey maintained. "So what if I defend criminals? Everyone deserves their day in court. It's their right as Americans, and if it wasn't me arguing their cases, it'd be someone else."

"But it was you." Angel pointed out. "You're the reason Vanessa Brewer is out there right now, available to fulfill another contract."

"Ya said something about kids when ya walked in here." Doyle spoke up, his curiosity and concern for innocent lives getting the better of him. "Care to get back to that bit."

"That's right." Lindsey replied, seemingly grateful that Doyle could be reasonable when all was said and done. "I don't know all the details, but I do know there's some kids coming from overseas. And it's Brewer's job to kill them when they get here. Couple days from now."

"I need more." Angel said.

"I don't have any more than that." Lindsey explained. "The rest of it's still at the firm. Probably in the vault."

"I'm guessing you'll be going back to fetch it for us then? To prove your change of heart is the genuine article, yeah?" Doyle suggested.

Lindsey looked at Doyle as if he'd recommended he dance a jig for them. "I can't go back there. Never."

"I'm not sensing genuine." Angel quipped, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands on the desk in front of him. "Wanna try that again?"

"I go back there, I'm dead." Lindsey argued. "And that's not just a figure of speech. They have mind-readers, okay. They won't even question me, they'll shoot first, ask questions later. Literally."

"Ah… not genuine at all. Nothing but fear on this one." Doyle observed.

"You wanna prove you're a changed man, Lindsey, you're gonna have to take the risk. I know I'm willing to take it." Angel replied with deadly seriousness.

"Y'know, they had witch trials that went the same way." Lindsey grumbled in reply. "They'd throw an accused witch in the river and she was only found innocent if she drowned."

"Before my time." Angel deadpanned.

"Tsk, tsk." Doyle shook his head in disappointment. "Shame those witches didn't have representation such as yourself. I'm sure most of 'em _were_ innocent, which is more than I can say about most lawyers."

"You either help us save those kids, or their deaths are on you." Angel finished, staring daggers into Lindsey, silently willing him to prove he had a human soul after all. "The _choice_ is yours."

* * *

Cordelia sat behind her desk tapping a pencil lightly on the blotter in front of her. Wesley had just excused himself to pick up some drinkable coffee, which left only she and Doyle behind in the office, worrying about the great Wolfram & Hart caper that Angel was a party to. Although, from what Cordelia could tell, Doyle was unusually calm, considering the circumstances. He was lying spread out across the couch, reading the paper. If Cordelia didn't know better, she'd assume he hadn't a care in the world.

"Okay, what gives? Why aren't you pacing the floor and yammering on and on about how stupid we were to let our boss walk right into what was so obviously a trap?" Cordelia demanded, arching a perfectly shaped brow in Doyle's direction. "I mean, despite the lack of visible horns or tails, and the stellar taste in footwear, those lawyers are way more evil than most demons. Slimier, too."

Doyle kept his eyes on the paper in front of him. "Slime aside, I don't think it's a trap, love."

"Well... even if it isn't a trap, it's _beyond_ dangerous. Sending Angel into the belly of the beast, where they have vampire-sensing shamans or whatever. Seems like an unnecessary risk, if you ask me." She commented, still tapping away with the pencil.

Doyle finally lowered the paper and craned his neck so he could look over at her behind the desk. "It was necessary, Cordy, trust me. We couldn't risk ending up with a bunch of dead kids. Are ya saying I shoulda volunteered instead?"

"No!" She replied vehemently. "God... no. Please, _you_ trying to be Mr. Stealth-guy? You wouldn't make it ten feet. I just don't get why that cretin couldn't do it himself."

Doyle pushed himself into an upright sitting position and tossed the paper aside. "It was a two-man job, darlin'. Someone had to go with Lindsey, and as much as I don't like it—it hadda be Angel. He's stronger, faster and, as you so delicately pointed out, stealthier than any of the rest of us."

"What about that threshold thingie?" Cordelia worried, thinking of Lindsey's warning that a vampire couldn't step foot into the Wolfram & Hart building with all sorts of silent alarms going off. "It's gonna be a real short heist if your plan doesn't work."

"It'll work." Doyle assured her. "And it gave Angel a chance to bring Gunn into the mix once again. Don't have to tell ya why I think that's important."

"He's part of our future." She said with a heavy sigh, leaning her chin against her palm and letting the pencil drop flat on the desktop in front of her. "Assuming we have one."

Doyle wrinkled his brows at her and pushed himself up off the couch. He moved over to one of the chairs across from Cordelia's desk and sat on the edge of it, leaning toward her. "Something else on your mind? Since when do you worry so much 'bout the future?"

"I've always worried about the future. I've been planning for it my entire life." She fired back. "You're the one who needed a notebook full of visions in order to start living like tomorrow actually mattered."

"Ah… well, maybe that's partly true, but I'm sensing that something's not being said here." Doyle replied, gesturing between them with his hand. "Is this about the other night? Ya still mad I went racing off to help Angel instead of staying with you?"

"No. Just forget it, okay?" She said, shaking her head in mild frustration. The truth was, it wasn't so much that she was annoyed by the fact that he'd left the safety of her bed to go fight evil, as it was the fact that he was bound to do it again. Over and over. He would always choose Angel and the good fight over being with her. And even though she knew it was probably selfish of her to want to come first on his list of priorities, she couldn't help but feel more than a little resentful of his calling.

 _Callings_ , plural. He was chosen by the Powers That Be to be a messenger; he was chosen by a future version of Cordelia herself to be a protector. And both of those callings revolved around Angel, and only Angel.

Coming in second only stung so much because Cordelia was in love with him. Truly, madly, deeply. All the –lys. She knew that now, even though she still couldn't bring herself to say the words out loud. Not saying she loved him was pretty much the only control she still had over the situation, because feeling it... well, she obviously had zero control over that. She had never intended to let herself _like_ him, much less love him. And now she was so far past the point of no return, she couldn't remember when she passed it in the first place.

She loved him in a way that made it easy to consider him before everything else, and hard to imagine a time when she hadn't. In fact, she couldn't imagine her life without him. And that was a really strange feeling for her, because she'd never felt that way about anyone. Not even her parents. Everyone she had ever met seemed temporary, but Doyle—he felt important, he felt permanent. He felt like he belonged there, in her heart. Like he was always meant to be there. He just _fit_. Which was why, whether she wanted him to be or not, he was _her_ priority. The good fight mattered to her, sure. She was totally on board with helping the hopeless. She just didn't think that should be all-consuming, that's all. In her opinion, the good fight came in second. It came in second to her life. It came in second to her dreams and her aspirations. It came in second to Doyle's life. And it came in second to her life _with_ Doyle.

The problem was, Doyle seemed to disagree.

She couldn't possibly say these things to the man sitting across from her, staring at her with his wide, compassionate, green eyes. He would think she was being horribly selfish, even if he never told her so. Because, for him, helping people was the point. Fighting evil was the point. He would try and make her understand how important Angel and the mission truly were... and it would just make her feel worse, rather than better. Because even if she did understand and agree on some level, she couldn't make herself feel any differently about it.

So, even though she loved him fiercely, it had to remain her secret for now. It was the only lifeline she had left.

Cordelia felt his hand cover hers on the desk and she looked up in surprise. She'd been so lost in her own thoughts that she'd nearly forgotten they'd been in the middle of a conversation. He was now silently questioning her with his eyes, trying to read the feelings she was working desperately to keep in check. He was good at doing that; he didn't need any special demon empathic abilities, his regular human ones worked just fine.

"I'm just worried about Angel." She half-fibbed. Of course, she was genuinely worried about Angel, but that certainly wasn't the only thing on her mind.

The sound of the elevator ascending from the apartment below saved her. Doyle patted her hand reassuringly and gave her a wink. "I think ya can put those worries to rest now." He pushed his chair back, and stood to greet Angel as he entered the room carrying a large tube and a pile of computer discs. "Ya got the files, yeah? What about your partner in crime?"

"Dead, I presume." Angel said indifferently, placing the tube down on the edge of the desk and handing the discs to Cordelia. "The files we need should be on one of these."

"Guess he really did change." Doyle deadpanned. "We got what we need to save the kids."

Cordelia had popped one of the discs into the computer and tried to open it. "Not so fast." She informed the two men standing over her desk. "The files are encrypted. So, unless one of you has some hidden hacker skills you've been saving for a rainy day, we're at a dead end."

"Ah...I don't have any such skills, but I know a guy..." Doyle offered, as he curiously popped open the tube Angel had tossed on the desk and slipped an ancient-looking parchment out of it.

"In that case, I know a _girl_. And she's probably better." Cordelia countered, waving Doyle away from the desk.

She noticed that Doyle's eyes had fixated on whatever the tube contained. "Is this what I think it is, man?" He asked, gently removing the scroll from the tube and placing it down on the edge of the desk.

"I don't know what it is." Angel admitted. "I just... felt like I needed it."

"I'll say ya do." Doyle agreed, slowly unraveling it halfway and inspecting the faded words that were not written in anything resembling English.

"Did you and Wesley just pull a Freaky Friday or something?" Cordelia asked, watching Doyle inspect the scroll with fascination. "Since when do you care about stinky old scrolls written in Latin?"

"It's Ancient Aramaic." Doyle amended.

"You know what it is." Angel concluded. "You know why I felt drawn to it."

Doyle nodded, rolling it back up and placing it reverently back into the tube for safekeeping. "That right there is the Prophecy of Aberjian."

"Well, that clears it up _not at all_." Cordelia muttered sarcastically. "Again, I ask, _where_ is Doyle and what have you done with him?"

"That thing is the key to Angel's future." Doyle explained to Cordelia, before turning his focus on the vampire at his side. "Everything I've been trying to tell ya since we started all this—why we need to keep fighting and all that... it's written right there."

"In a dead language." Cordelia noted unenthusiastically. Wonderful, just wonderful. There she was lamenting the fact that Angel's mission always came first, and suddenly there was an ancient prophecy to really hammer home the point. How could a person hope to compete with that? Especially when she had limited funds to expand her wardrobe.

"What does it say?" Angel asked in mild wonderment.

Doyle shrugged in reply. "That, I don't know—not like I can read the thing. I just know the prophecy's important. How's Wesley's Aramaic? We're gonna need someone to translate."

Angel's eyes skimmed over the protective tube on the desk before he raised them back to meet Doyle's face, which was filled with barely contained delight. "Is this part of your need-to-know info from the Powers That Be? Or was this part of your vision of the future?"

"Does it matter, man?" Doyle asked, raising his brows insistently. "They're one and the same, at this point. You trust me, yeah?"

Angel merely nodded in reply, making it clear that he did, in fact, trust Doyle at his word.

"Well, then trust me when I say, that right there is your destiny."


	47. Blind Date, Pt 3

**"Blind Date," Part III**

"Okay... hitting enter now." Cordelia spoke into the phone receiver that was balanced between her shoulder blade and the right side of her head. "The entire screen went blue. Is that supposed to happen? ...Oh, right. Rebooting. _Again._ "

The three men sharing the office with Cordelia were displaying various states of nervous energy as the minutes, which were fast approaching hours, ticked by. Wesley had willingly abandoned his freshly procured coffee in order to spread out in Angel's office with his new exciting Ancient Aramaic scrolls of Aberjian. Doyle, hating to see a cup of drinkable coffee go to waste, had salvaged the abandoned cup for himself, and was enjoying what remained of it from his perch on the side of Cordelia's desk. He had alternated between, watching her crash the computer multiple times, and trying to complete today's word jumble in the paper. Meanwhile, Angel sat in one of the empty chairs in front of Cordelia's desk, doing everything he could not to shake his leg impatiently. It wasn't working, to say the least.

"So, how are things in Sunnydale these days?" Cordelia asked brightly into the phone. "Apocalypse, huh? ...Yeah, no surprise there. How's The Bronze?"

Doyle picked up the newspaper he had tossed aside for the moment and offered it to Angel. "You can finish the crossword if ya like. Page 5." Angel shook his head in obvious irritation, the tension in his jaw readily visible.

"Okay, Willow, it restarted. What now...?" Cordelia clacked out a few more tedious keystrokes and Angel must have rethought his stance on distraction. He held out his hand, taking the paper from Doyle after all. Doyle took a pencil from the cup on Cordelia's desk and silently handed that to Angel as well.

"It looks like it's loading." Cordelia spoke into the phone. "Yeah… I am seeing someone, as a matter of fact."

Doyle's brows raised with interest, as he turned his body more fully in her direction. He had never heard her talk to anyone else about him, and he was more than a little curious to hear what she would say, even if he was sitting right there to hear it.

"We work together." Cordelia said before letting out a loud whooping laugh. "No, not Wesley! But, yeah, he works here, too. I'll tell him you said hi."

There was a small snort from Angel. Doyle wondered if it was an indication of what he thought of Cordelia and Wesley's brief dating history, or a reaction to the crossword puzzle. Apparently, Wesley's courtship of Cordelia hadn't gone too well. Cordelia described their chemistry as lukewarm oatmeal—something once experienced, should then be avoided at all costs. Doyle peeked at the figure hunched over on the other side of the blinds; he was a thousand miles away, probably not even cognizant of the fact that Cordelia was talking on the phone, despite the volume at which she did so. Doyle couldn't, for the life of him, picture the two of them dating. Then again, some might say the same of Doyle and Cordelia, who may not appear compatible at first glance, but certainly meshed where it counted.

"Yeah, the guy Buffy met. His name is Doyle." Cordelia continued speaking into the phone as she tapped a few more keys and a loud beep emanated from the speakers. "Oh, did you hear that? Does that mean it's working...? Uh huh... Uh huh... Wait, she said what about his eyes?"

Doyle looked down at her with a curious smirk and Cordelia raised her eyes up to his, a smile widening on her face. She nodded along with whatever the girl said on the other end of the phone. Meanwhile, Angel shot a glare in Cordelia's direction, and then side-eyed Doyle, which gave Doyle the distinct impression that Angel's vampire hearing was affording him the ability to hear both sides of the conversation. "Yeah, I guess you could describe them that way."

"Can she get us in?" Angel interrupted, pointing to the computer. Cordelia merely waved back at him dismissively.

She tapped a few more keys and then leaned forward squinting at the screen. "It's complete, I think... oh, really?" She pulled the phone away from ear once again. "Guess what? They've spent the entire day breaking encrypted computer files, too!"

"What are the odds?" Doyle replied unenthusiastically, exchanging a frustrated glance with Angel, who appeared to be doodling some rather demonic-looking figures on the edges of the newspaper, rather than trying to complete the crossword puzzle Doyle had recommended.

"Okay, I'm on the desktop." Cordelia said into the phone, her attention focused on the screen in front of her. "And... there it is! A backdoor. Thanks, Will. Good catching up. Let's do it again soon." She hung up the phone and twisted the monitor partway so Doyle could also see it. "Voila!"

"Your girl is good." Doyle said appreciatively, leaning closer to the screen and sipping from the cold remains of the coffee cup in his hand.

Angel hopped up out of his seat and circled behind Cordelia to peer over her shoulder. "Vanessa Brewer. Click on that." He said, placing his finger on the screen to indicate the file he wanted to see. Cordelia swatted his hand away impatiently.

"First of all, no one likes a backseat driver." Cordelia scolded, as she navigated to the file in question and opened it. "Secondly, you don't touch a computer monitor. Look at all the smudges you left behind!" She grabbed a tissue out of the box on her desk and began wiping at Angel's offending fingerprints.

"Sorry." Angel mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Doyle snickered to himself, and gestured to the now spotless screen. "Ah... I'm sure ya can see your reflection by now, love. Care to tell us where we can find the kids who need saving?"

She clicked the mouse, opening the file Angel had been so eager to see and began reading from Vanessa Brewer's personnel file. "Well, look at that! She wasn't born blind. She did it to herself. So, not only is she crazy-talented when it comes to fighting, she's also just plain crazy!"

Angel was leaning down over her shoulder, warranting an annoyed glance from Cordelia as he too read off the screen. "She spent five years in Pajaur, studying with the Nanjin. That explains her power."

"It does?" Cordelia asked cluelessly.

"She _is_ like Daredevil." Doyle exclaimed proudly. "Which means, if you two were up on your pop culture, you'd know I was right all along."

"How about an explanation for those of us who aren't enormous geeks?" Cordelia requested.

"The Order of Nanjin—they're cave-dwelling monks. They believe enlightenment is seeing with the heart, not the mind." Angel began, but the look on Cordelia's face plainly said he wasn't helping to illuminate anything.

"She can't see with her eyes." Doyle explained in plain English. "But her training's made it so her other senses are in overdrive. She's more aware of her surroundings than a person who can see. Intuition off the charts and all that. Nearly impossible to beat an opponent who's mastered it."

"Nearly impossible and impossible aren't the same thing." Angel replied, pointing to the screen again and then pulling his finger back quickly, before he could be reprimanded. "What about her current job?"

Cordelia gave Angel a warning glare, but turned her eyes back to the screen dutifully. "The kids are in a safe house. There's the address." She grabbed a post-it and began writing it down as she continued to read off the screen. "They're blind, too. 'Together the children have the power to see into the heart of things.'"

"No wonder they make Wolfram & Hart nervous." Doyle noted, tossing his now empty coffee cup in the trashcan nearby and standing up at the ready. "So, what's our play here?"

Angel was still reading off the screen as he answered. "They're waiting to meet they're mentor who's scheduled to arrive tonight. Cordelia, see if you can pull Wesley away from those ancient scrolls long enough to intercept him. I'll call your cell when the kids are safe." Angel stepped around the desk and yanked his black duster off the back of the chair he'd been sitting in moments earlier. "Doyle, you're coming with me. We're gonna stop this bitch before she lays a hand on those kids."

"Uh... not that I don't appreciate your faith in me, man, but why am I on blind assassin duty? I'm great at intercepting, y'know?" Doyle said nervously, not relishing the thought of having his face meet the pavement on his second encounter with the nearly unbeatable assassin.

"You're not on blind assassin duty, you're on protect the innocent children duty." Angel answered on his way to the front door.

"Be careful!" Cordelia called as she headed toward the doorway of Angel's office to retrieve Wesley.

As Angel opened the front door, both he and Doyle came up short—Lindsey stood on the other side, looking just as surprised to see them. "Sorry, I'm late." He said.

"Lindsey, you're not dead." Angel stated the obvious, as he continued to push through the door. "That means, you're coming with us."

"And where's that, exactly?" Lindsey asked with concern.

"You're on blind assassin duty." Doyle explained, trailing behind Angel, and poking Lindsey in the chest as he walked by.

* * *

The lights were dim in Angel's office, the way he preferred them when no one else was around. Doyle sat with his legs up on the edge of Angel's desk, his eyes closed and his head back. Angel sat across from him in much the same position. They'd each taken some blows earlier in the evening, and were not eager to move. Although Doyle knew Angel's wounds were probably nearly healed already. Doyle's, however, would turn to dark bruises and remain for several days, at least. The only consolation was that Lindsey, too, had taken some blows and would probably be even slower to heal than Doyle, having not even the slightest drop of demon blood to draw from.

The other consolation was that the children were now safe. Vanessa had tried, and failed, to complete her contract. In the end, Angel had bested her by using his undead status to trick her extremely heightened senses. Unlike Doyle and Lindsey, Angel had no body heat, no heartbeat, no pulse. He didn't sweat, therefore his scent was faint at best. When Angel stood still, there was almost nothing to sense aside from the sight of him—the one sense Vanessa no longer had at her disposal. It was by freezing in place and then bursting into action that Angel had bested—and been forced to kill—the nearly undefeatable foe.

Doyle had been tasked with protecting the children, and protect them he had. Surprisingly, so had Lindsey, although neither Angel nor Doyle had been willing to bet their lives on that being the case. The lawyer had taken more than one blow in place of the children, and if not for Angel's intervention, he may have died protecting them. It appeared, the unexpected had happened. An employee of Wolfram & Hart had a soul. And he'd probably spend the rest of his life running from them in order to keep it. Doyle suspected Lindsey's prospects in that regard, weren't great, but at least he'd go out knowing he did the right thing. For that, Doyle had to give credit where credit was due.

It was possible that Doyle had nodded off in his chair, although he couldn't recall having done so. A pair of hands suddenly digging into the muscles of his shoulders, gave him a start; he would've jumped forward if he wasn't pinned down by the pressure. He opened his eyes to see a halo of soft brown waves cascading below a perfect jawline, and he settled back to enjoy the massage Cordelia was now providing to his aching body.

"Ah... that's nice." Doyle groaned in pleasure, as she kneaded away the knots that had formed in his upper back.

His eyes were still closed as he heard Angel's voice emanate from the other side of the desk. "The kids are with their mentor?"

"Yeah, Wesley set them up at another location. A _secret_ location." Cordelia's voice confirmed from somewhere above Doyle's head. "They'll move again in a day or two."

"Good." Angel replied.

Cordelia continued to massage Doyle's shoulders for another few minutes, before giving them a final squeeze and leaning down to speak close to his left ear. "It's late. I'm gonna head out. You coming?" He didn't miss the fact that her question wasn't entirely a question—she assumed he would, in fact, be coming with her and he could think of no reason to disappoint her.

A rustling from the outer office announced Wesley's presence even before he came flying through the door, carrying a wave of excitement with him. "I've been able to translate a portion of the text!" He announced. In his hand was the scroll of Aberjian, which he lay across Angel's desk, spreading it out and leaning over it. Feeding off his energy, Doyle opened his eyes, yanked his legs off the edge of the desk and sat forward in his chair for a closer look. He heard Cordelia sigh heavily from behind him, probably figuring that her question as to whether or not Doyle would be joining her had just been answered in the negative.

Wesley's hand hovered over the ancient lettering on the scroll and Angel too leaned forward in his chair. It didn't matter that neither Doyle, nor Angel could read the text—the power of the words emanated from it silently. "Doyle was correct—these are the Prophecies of Aberjian. Thought to be lost centuries ago." He turned toward Doyle, eyes widening in subdued admiration. "I still don't understand how you could identify this on sight without any knowledge of the language."

"Call it a hunch, man." Doyle said nonchalantly.

"A rather specific hunch, wouldn't you say?" Wesley remarked.

"Wesley." Angel urged quietly. "What does it say?"

"For one thing, it mentions the children we saved this evening." Wesley explained, pointing toward a specific section of the scroll. "Therefore, it's safe to assume, this is how Wolfram & Hart knew of their arrival."

"That, or it could be the mind-readers, or the shamans, or the information they occasionally torture out of people." Cordelia quipped, leaning against the side of Doyle's chair with her arms folded. "So, what's it say about Angel?"

"Cordelia." Angel said, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was obvious to Doyle that Angel was trying not to get his hopes up in terms of what these prophecies might foretell.

"What?" She asked bluntly. "Doyle went on and on about these prophecies being the key to your future. Why do we have to pretend like we care about anything other than that?"

"Angel is mentioned." Wesley confirmed fervently.

"See!" Cordelia exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air in dramatic fashion.

Wesley took a deep breath, and it was clear by the look in his eyes that he was in his own state of quiet awe. "Not by name, of course. But, there is a whole section about the vampire with a soul."

Angel took that in, turning his eyes to Doyle with a reserved excitement brewing behind them. Doyle nodded back his own acknowledgement—this was what they'd been waiting for. "What else?" Angel asked, attention moving back toward the man who could actually translate the words on the page.

"I'm still working through the rest of it." Wesley replied apologetically. "Ancient Aramaic is quite tricky, I'm afraid. It's going to take me some time. Perhaps, if I had some idea of what it might say...?" Wesley turned his inquisitive eyes on Doyle, who stared blankly in reply.

"I wish I could tell ya more." Doyle answered. "Generally speaking, the Powers That Be don't like us to know much about our own futures—why d'ya think my visions are so vague? They're not puzzle pieces, they're slivers of puzzle pieces. But this right here..." He points to the parchment spread before them. "It's way more than a sliver and it's something they _want_ Angel to know."

"It's Angel's piece of the puzzle." Wesley surmised, following Doyle's abstract metaphor. "It speaks of his mission?"

"Better than that." Doyle admitted, leaning even further forward in his seat. "It's the end of all this... it's redemption."

* * *

Cordelia finished brushing her hair in front of the mirror, yawning as she placed the brush down on the countertop beside her. She took in her exhausted appearance, unsurprising considering the current ungodly hour. Working for a vampire made it necessary to keep a lot of under-eye makeup at her disposal. But, she was starting to worry the bags were a permanent fixture on her face.

She shut the light and padded lightly across the hall toward her bedroom. Although the light was still on, she could see that Doyle was already fast asleep, buried deep under the blankets. At least he'd come home with her, like she'd wanted him to. When Wesley had come running with those prophecies in hand, she'd thought for sure she'd be sleeping alone tonight. Not that she didn't sleep alone sometimes—Doyle didn't live with her, despite the fact that some of her neighbors probably thought he did. The nights they spent apart were growing fewer and far between. And she slept better when he was there, nestled beside her—it was the only time she knew he was safe.

As she lifted her side of the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, she was surprised when he rolled toward her, reaching out an arm to pull her into the bed. "So, you are awake." She noted unnecessarily, slipping her legs under the covers and allowing him to wrap himself around her.

His eyes were closed as he murmured his sleepy reply into her shoulder along with a feather light kiss. "Not really, no."

"Talking in your sleep, then. This oughtta be good." She responded teasingly, wrapping her own arms around him and stroking the back of his head lightly. "Tell me what you dream about, Doyle?"

He opened one eye that reflected the pale blue of her sheets back up at her, rather than his naturally green color. "You." He whispered drowsily. "In all the good ones."

She laughed lightly at that, nuzzling closer to him. "Good answer."

He did have his moments—even when he was half asleep—he reminded her how and why she'd fell for him in the first place. Aside from being a nice guy and a smart guy and a brave guy, he could also be a really sweet guy—he could make her feel like the most adored woman on the planet. Those moments made her forget about the big cosmic weight he carried, and think for a little while, that she was all that mattered.

"Anything else?" She asked, staring down at his one open eye, which didn't look like it'd be staying open for very much longer. "Angel's redemption, perhaps?" She kept her voice light, half-joking, but the question was an honest one. She didn't just want to know what occupied his sleeping dreams; she wondered what he dreamed about when he was awake.

She saw his brow wrinkle slightly in a sleepy, confusion. He rolled onto his back so she could see his whole face, and although he opened both eyes to peer up at her, he didn't look that much more alert than he had in his previous position. The slight slur to his words, told her he was using every brain cell he still had functioning to answer her. "Sure. Yeah...He gets that, and I get ridda the visions." He lifted one hand to rub his tired eyes. "That's a good one, too."

"You mean a day when we can go out in public without worrying you'll have a massive spaz attack?" She gently chided him.

"Mmm...That's your dream, yeah?" He slurred, letting his eyelids droop back down into a closed position.

"More than just a dream, I hope." She admitted softly.

He rolled back into the warmth of her body, burying his head in her shoulder once again. His mumbled reply was distorted. "It's gonna happen, Princess. You'll see."

She listened as his breathing pattern changed, indicating that he'd probably fallen asleep. She lay there a moment, unmoving so as not to disturb him on that precarious ledge between awake and asleep. Then she spoke softly into the empty air above the bed. "Dennis, can you turn off the light, please?"

The lamp on her bedside table clicked off at her request, leaving her in a blanket of darkness. She listened to Doyle's slow, even breathing and continued to stroke his hair, enjoying the feeling of him snuggled up against her. "Doyle?" She whispered, not expecting a response, but wanting to test it anyway. He didn't so much as stir at the sound of his name, assuring her that he was deep in slumber. "I love you." She whispered, before placing a soft kiss on his forehead. He still didn't stir, nor did his breathing change. A sure sign that her words had been spoken so that only she and her phantom roommate could hear them.

She closed her eyes and smiled into the darkness. Someday she would say those words when Doyle could hear them. Someday he'd know that he had conquered her completely...


	48. To Shanshu in LA, Pt 1

**A/N - Well, here we go. The final episode of the first season (and, honestly, I was so excited to write this particular episode that it kept me going through the episodes I didn't necessarily want to be writing). That, and the many kind reviews were also a great motivator- so thank you again, to all of you. Now on to the season finale! :)**

* * *

 **"To Shanshu in L.A.," Part I**

"Want some coffee, Wesley?" Cordelia made the offer as she poured herself a cup.

"Ah... I don't think there should be any spillable items 'round the thousand-year-old prophecies." Doyle remarked, from behind his newspaper. As per a typical day, he was seated on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, probably reading the sports page to see how much money he lost the night before. Granted, he hadn't actually talked about placing any bets recently; she absently wondered if that was because he was no longer gambling, or because he no longer wanted anyone to know he was still gambling.

"Mphhh." Wesley's reply sounded less like a reply and more like the sign of a stroke. He had taken over her desk space completely, which was annoying, to say the least. Her computer had been pushed aside and the Prophecies of Aberjian now occupied nearly all the usable space. Wesley was hunched over them, making notes on a small pad and constantly flipping through one of many large books that surrounded him, mumbling to himself all the while. He was a man possessed.

Cordelia leaned against the small counter top, sipping from her mug, listening to Wesley's latest incoherent mumblings.

"Shanshu... shanshu?" Wesley spoke quietly to himself.

"Gesundheit." Cordelia muttered in reply, although she had no doubt that he wasn't listening. She could probably hire a marching band to traipse through the office and Wesley wouldn't bat an eyelash.

"Or is it Shushan?" He wondered, scribbling feverishly onto the pad beside him.

"That sonofabitch!" Doyle exclaimed, slapping his palm against the paper he was reading. He lowered it enough to make eye contact with Cordelia and she could see the echo of his words flashing in his eyes. "Turns out our recently converted lawyer went back to the dark side. Lindsey's not running for his life, he's living it up as a junior partner. The guy got a bloody promotion!"

Cordelia shrugged, taking another sip of her hot beverage. "I assume by your tone of surprise, you really thought the guy had changed, huh?"

"He helped save those kids." Doyle said, frowning back down at the paper in his hands. "Guess I thought his soul was worth more than the money."

"I'm sure it was _a lot_ of money." Cordelia replied matter-of-factly. "Not to mention a shiny new company car... ooh, maybe even a private jet."

Doyle crinkled his brow and folded up the paper with an air of disillusionment. Cordelia put her half-drank mug down on the counter and moved across the room to lean over the forward-facing side of her desk. She couldn't understand what the ancient lettering on the scroll meant upside down or right side up, so it really made no difference where she stood.

"Shanshu." Wesley mumbled for what must have been the hundredth time.

"Are you still trying to figure out that word? What's taking so long?" Cordelia badgered, tilting her head to see if, perhaps, the letters did make sense when they were right side up.

Nope. No sense whatsoever.

"Gee, I don't know, Cordelia. The Prophecies of Aberjian were only written over the last 4,000 years, in a dozen different languages, some of which aren't even human! Why don't we just get a Phalangoid demon in here to suck the brain out of my skull. Maybe that would speed things up!"

"Doubtful." Doyle remarked dryly. "Those Phalangoid demons aren't real forthcoming. Also, they don't speak English, so wouldn't help with the translation bit."

"Testy much?" Cordelia asked Wesley. "You probably should've taken that coffee break."

"I'm sorry..." Wesley blew air out in a thin stream, and scratched at his head in obvious frustration. "It's just that this word is pivotal to what it prophesies about the vampire with a soul."

"Right. The key to Angel's mysterious, but entirely predestined, future." Cordelia repeated the mantra she knew by heart, thoroughly unimpressed. Suddenly she perked up. "You think there's anything about me in there? Or Doyle?"

Wesley raised his head slowly as if she couldn't have possibly asked him a more farcical question. "Why, pray tell, would there be anything about either of you? Last time I checked you're completely human and Doyle..." Wesley looked over at Doyle's amused expression, and let whatever description he would've used for the other man die on his lips.

Doyle was grinning widely, and raised his eyebrows in question. "Go on."

"Is not." Wesley finished lamely. Something told Cordelia, that hadn't been what he originally intended to say.

"Well, these prophecies are all about the infamous vampire with a soul, right? And we're, like, his entourage. Shouldn't we get at least a tiny mention?" Cordelia wondered, toying with the ends of her hair out of sheer boredom. "He'd be down in his apartment, sitting in the dark if it weren't for Doyle. And Doyle wouldn't even be here right now if it weren't for me." She slapped her hand over her mouth as she said that last part, and her eyes darted apologetically over to Doyle. He still looked somewhat amused, but also gave her a small warning nod.

It's not that they were purposely keeping the time travel issue a secret from Wesley, it was simply that they'd agreed to discuss it as little as possible. As Doyle had warned her in the first place, no one should know too much about their own future. Even Angel didn't want to know... well, except for the fact that he did want to know. That's what this stupid shanshu thing was all about anyway, but apparently there was a difference between Doyle's marble notebook full of nonsense that may or may not ever happen and an ancient scroll full of the same.

Luckily, Wesley was distracted enough, not to think too hard about what Cordelia might have meant by her comment and instead simply thought she was being glib. "Yes, I'm sure these sacred scrolls make mention of your feminine wiles and Doyle's complete inability to stay away from them. That would seem an important piece of Angel's destiny."

"Don't underestimate my wiles, Wesley." Cordelia played along in order not to raise his suspicions.

"Perhaps, your wiles could lead Doyle to another location?" Wesley pleaded, first addressing Cordelia and then turning to Doyle.

Doyle took the bait, pushing himself up off the couch and placing a hand on her shoulder to encourage her toward the front door. "Why don't I take ya to lunch, darlin? We can go to that little salad place ya love, with the outdoor patio and all that."

Cordelia knew Doyle hated that place, because he didn't consider salad to be real food. Which is why she wasn't going to turn down the offer, regardless of Wesley's rather unsubtle attempt to get rid of her.

"If my wiles get you to eat something leafy and green, then I think they trump destiny." She said smugly, as she linked arms with Doyle and the two of them headed out into the warm sunshine.

* * *

"Stop being such a baby. Green foods are good for you, Doyle."

"Y'know what's also good for ya? Protein." Doyle replied smartly. "This ain't the good kinda green—this is rabbit food."

He had been using his fork to dig deep through the leafy greens of his salad, searching for the meat that had fallen to the bottom. He glowered over at Cordelia as she chastised him and finally gave up his search, dropping the fork and grabbing for a piece of bread instead—he then proceeded to smear it with a thick wad of butter, eliciting a wrinkled nose of further disapproval from Cordelia.

"You're the one who wanted to come here." She reminded him, stabbing a forkful of her own salad and popping it into her mouth gleefully.

"Only 'cause I knew it'd make ya happy, darlin'." He responded without missing a beat. With that, he took a sizable bite of the buttery bread and winked at her as he chewed.

They sat on the sunny patio outside the lunch spot, enjoying the typically flawless L.A. weather. Cordelia's attention was pulled toward a yellow school bus that stopped at a red light. Shrieks of laughter emanated from within… and just shrieks, in general. Kids being kids. She watched as a wad of paper flew out one of the windows and landed in the gutter nearby.

Cordelia turned back to the man seated across from her, trying to envision him on the bus, in charge of those kids. It wasn't something that was easy to imagine. "Do you ever miss it?" She asked, nodding her head toward the school bus.

Doyle's head slowly turned in the direction she indicated and as his eyes fell on the busload of rowdy children, she could've sworn an almost wistful look came to his eyes. "Teaching, ya mean?"

"No, riding public transportation." She answered sarcastically, fluttering her eyes skyward. "Of course, I mean teaching. Do you ever, y'know… think about going back to it?"

His eyes remained firmly on the yellow bus as the light turned green and it slowly proceeded down the street, taking the sounds of shrieking children along with it. "I don't think I can." He said honestly. "Just think of how dangerous hay fever season would be. Not to mention, the little matter of the brain-crushing visions."

"Well, what about in the future when you don't have the visions anymore?" Cordelia wondered. "Assuming you get yourself some really good allergy meds."

"Ah… I dunno, haven't given it much thought." He admitted with a shrug, placing the remainder of the bread down on his plate and capturing the fork to reconvene his scavenger hunt. "I guess it all depends on what the prophecy says, yeah? If it sounds like I should be considering other career paths, then maybe..."

Cordelia sipped from her water glass, observing his uneasy behavior. She was under the impression that Doyle spent night and day thinking about what he'd do if he _didn't_ have the visions. Apparently, that wasn't actually the case. She was sure he wanted them gone, just from the pain perspective, but it didn't sound like he had much in the way of a plan B. Nothing that didn't involve gambling and hustling his way through life, anyway.

"What about you, Princess?" He asked suddenly, looking back up from his plate of food. "What's your plan for the future—other than superstardom, o'course."

"That about sums it up." She answered blithely.

"I'm serious." He said, his eyes backing up his words. "I know ya had plans for a rich husband and all that, but you've proven you can take care of yourself. Maybe things have changed? Maybe ya want different things now?"

His ever-changing eyes were a radiant blue in the sunny afternoon light, and they were focused squarely on her, asking a question she had asked herself time and time again. What did she want now? If not the fantastical dreams of superstardom and a rich husband to cater to her every whim—what were her actual, attainable plans? Aside from helping a vampire with a soul rid the world of evil.

"I am serious about the superstardom." She insisted, although she was more than half joking. "I'd also accept minor stardom. Really, any sort of acting career would be ideal." She conceded, dropping the humor from her voice. "Or, I guess I'd like to go back to school… just in case the superstardom thing doesn't work out. It might shock you, but I was actually really good in school."

That brought a grin of approval to Doyle's lips. "That doesn't shock me nearly as much as it'd shock you to know I was the same way."

"Maybe you should go back to school with me." She suggested. "I mean… wait, did you go to college? I can't believe I've never asked you that."

"I went for a bit, yeah. Never finished." Doyle explained. "When Harry and me were together, I took night classes—I was only a few credits shy of the end there, but then… I'm thinking you can fill in the blank."

"You gave up." She completed the thought.

"Ah… that wasn't quite the blank I had in mind." Doyle amended. "But, fine, if we're kicking a fella while he's down, then yeah, I gave up on account of my entire life falling apart. Don't think I could go back to all that now—it's not really me anymore. But, I do think I'd enjoy dating a college girl."

"Well, I'm not going back to school yet either." She reminded him. "This is all hypothetical future stuff. We still have a lot of people to save, and if L.A. is anything like Sunnydale, I'm sure there will be an apocalypse to avert any day now."

* * *

"Nice cape, man."

Doyle stood with his arms folded across his chest, staring eyeball to eyeball with the late night visitor who had very nearly given him a heart attack.

"Yeah? I can get you one, if you want." David Nabbit said enthusiastically, stepping around Doyle to take in all the details of the small office space. Doyle spun around to keep him in sight—still wondering how it was possible that he'd sensed the unassuming billionaire before the guy had even knocked. It was becoming a habit of Doyle's—to sense things in his human form that he should only be able to sense in his demon form. And the more it happened, the more disconcerting it became.

In this case, he'd known there was a human being lurking in their dark lobby, and he'd naturally assumed the worst—that he was once again being targeted by a loan shark. Never mind that Doyle had paid off a decent portion of his debts. Some could never be paid off on account of the payees no longer being willing to accept payment. Which was why Doyle was greatly relieved to see their former client, and current benefactor on the other side of their front door. It was actually primarily thanks to Nabbit that Doyle had been able to even consider paying his debts. And, of course, the other reason was seated nearby, smelling of vanilla and promises.

"I don't think a cape would go with the whole thrift shop chic thing Doyle's got going on." Cordelia remarked from her place on the couch. She was diligently painting her toenails, having completely given up all pretenses that she was going to do any work in the near future. Not with Wesley still camped out at her desk, eyes red from the hours spent staring at the faded words on parchment. He was starting to look very much like a nutty professor—probably, not great for business to have a bedraggled crazy man mumbling incoherently at the front desk.

"Ah... can we help ya with something?" Doyle wondered, as his eyes followed Nabbit around the room. The smaller man peeked into Angel's office and then sat in one of the chairs across from Wesley, looking for all the world like he planned on staying a while.

"Nah…I just blew off my Board of Directors. I'm Dungeon Master this week." Nabbit explained, leaning back in the chair to address Doyle. "It means I can bring guests, if I want."

Doyle looked over to Cordelia who had raised her brows to their full height without looking up from her toenails. Doyle unfolded his arms and tried to look as regretful as he could muster. "That... uh... I wish I could get away, man. But, we've got this pretty big case at the moment. A real doozy!" Doyle watched as Nabbit's somewhat hopeful expression dropped slightly. "Maybe next time, yeah?"

Nabbit's face lit back up like a Christmas tree. "Next time. Sure!" He said, popping back up out of the seat. "It'll be my turn again in another eight weeks. Six, if I can assassinate the elf king ahead of time."

"That's… _great_." Doyle replied feigning enthusiasm, while Cordelia snorted to herself from her place on the couch. "We'll pencil ya in. I mean... I have to assume the invitation is extended to my better half as well? Ya might not know it to look at her, but Cordy's a big fan of dungeons."

Cordelia's head shot up as he threw her under the bus, and he could see a flash of fury in her eyes. He had no doubt he'd be paying for his little gag later, but for now, he was enjoying it too much.

"Oh...O-Of course!" Nabbit stammered, flushing red as he ventured a glance in Cordelia's direction. "That would be... wooo." He swallowed uncomfortably, and pulled at his collar.

Cordelia couldn't even pretend to be anything less than horrified. Nabbit turned his anxious eyes back on Doyle, trying to regain whatever limited composure he had.

"So, what's the big case?" Nabbit asked. "I could help… or…" He turned to the desk in front of him and looked down at an open book featuring a rather large and grotesque demon. Nabbit gulped audibly and then checked his watch; he stood up abruptly, making a beeline for the front door. "I have to go."

"Great catching up." Doyle called over his shoulder, as Nabbit made haste out of the office and shut the door behind him with a final thud. Doyle shook his head at the bizarreness of the visit. "Still don't understand how that guy runs a big, successful company."

Cordelia was staring daggers at Doyle from across the room as she twisted the top of her nail polish closed. "What the hell, Doyle?!" She screeched. "I am _so_ withholding sex as punishment for that. Possibly forever!"

"Suit yourself, darlin'." Doyle replied with a smirk, garnering an even more murderous glare from her. "You're still gonna have to come slay imaginary dragons with me in eight weeks time. Six if the elf king meets his untimely end."

Angel silently appeared in the doorway to his office, holding an open book in hand. "Why was David Nabbit here?"

"To put an end to Doyle's sex life!" Cordelia blurted in annoyance.

"Okay." Angel replied, lifting his mildly perplexed gaze toward Doyle. "Why else was he here?"

"The man's got nothing to do." Doyle said with a shrug. "No friends. No social life. Money can buy a lot, but it can't turn a socially inept frog into a prince."

"So he came here?" Angel asked, still not understanding the reason Nabbit would seek out their office as a means of entertainment. He closed his book and slipped it under his arm.

"He thinks Doyle's his new best friend." Cordelia explained. "And, sadly, it's probably true in his case. Move over, Angel. You've got some pretty stiff competition in the socially awkward department."

Wesley stood up from behind the desk so suddenly that all three heads turned simultaneously in his direction, all thoughts of the lonely, friendless billionaire who'd sought them out instantly forgotten.

"Of course! If it isn't Aegean but instead descends from the ancient Majar's then its root is proto-hugaric!"

"Care to try that again in something resembling English?" Cordelia asked, keeping her drying toes spread out on the couch cushion beside her.

"I know what the word Shanshu means." Wesley announced. "It means death."

"Oh." Cordelia replied unenthusiastically. "That's not good."

"No. No way, man. That's not right." Doyle argued, stepping forward so he was standing beside Angel at the side of the desk. "You're translating it wrong."

"I mean...um…" Wesley looked flustered as if he didn't really believe he was wrong, but had no solid proof to the contrary. "It could be a mistranslation. These ancient demonic languages, they are tricky."

"You'd better keep at it, then." Doyle ordered him, his voice laced with a building urgency. "Find out what it really says, yeah? Otherwise we will be bringing in that Phalangoid demon after all."

"Doyle, calm down." Angel said evenly, without the hint of emotion flickering below his placid surface. "Wesley's probably not wrong."

"What are ya saying, man?" Doyle asked in annoyance, whirling on his friend. "You're willing to accept a death sentence, just like that?"

"Even if it's correct, it's most likely years off. Decades even. After the coming battles." Wesley pointed out. "There's no reason to think Angel is in imminent danger."

"See. No imminent danger." Angel said, holding out a hand in explanation. "Does the scroll say anything else?"

"Oh, I see alright." Doyle sputtered angrily. He was the very antithesis of Angel's stoic silence. "I see how wrong this all is and you not giving a damn about it!"

"Doyle." Angel warned, still keeping his voice relatively calm.

"No way is this all for nothing!" Doyle exploded. "The Powers That Be turn my brain into ground beef on a regular basis. Not to mention what's been done to the timeline, for Christ's sake! Ya can't convince me it's all so I can help ya die!"

Cordelia had slowly stood from her place on the couch, and walked barefoot to where Doyle and Angel stood. She reached out a hand and placed it on Doyle's shoulder, giving him a comforting little squeeze, but he shook her off. He wasn't looking to be coddled or distracted or talked off a ledge. He was furious—most especially at Angel, for acting like it was no big deal.

"I'm already dead, Doyle." Angel replied, still without much emotion. "You have to accept it. I do."

"Yeah, I can see that." Doyle spat back, turning on his heel and stalking off toward the front door. He wasn't sure where he was intending to go, he just knew he couldn't stand there and see Angel's blank expression for one more minute. He didn't get all the way to the front door before a steamroller hit him. A steamroller that smelled like toxic waste.

Doyle lost control of his nervous system, and when he became cognizant of his actual surroundings once again, he was lying on the floor with Angel's hands bracing his head.

"Painkillers." Doyle moaned, blinking away the tears that had fastened themselves to his eyes. They were caused by the putrid smell more than the skull-splitting pain. "Ugh… _awful_."

Cordelia was at Doyle's side seconds later, offering him a fistful of aspirin and the backup flask he kept hidden in her bottom drawer—apparently, not quite as hidden as he thought.

"What did you see?" Angel asked, helping Doyle into a seated position.

Doyle tossed back the pills and took a swallow of the burning liquid before replying. "Homeless lady about to get mauled by a slime demon. Behind the waste treatment plant in Elscando." Doyle took a deeper swig from the flask. "Can't tell ya which of 'em smells worse."

"Alright. Wesley, you're with me." Angel stood and gestured to Wesley who was already pulling on his own jacket. "Cordelia… take him home."

Cordelia nodded up at Angel as he headed downstairs to grab weapons. Wesley was on his heels, and soon it was only Doyle and Cordelia left seated in the middle of the office floor. Cordelia was sitting on her heels, rubbing Doyle's back comfortingly, while he rubbed at his sinuses, hoping to encourage the memory of that godawful smell to exit his nasal passages.

"No wonder this gig was supposed to be the death of me." He muttered mostly to himself, missing the deep frown that appeared on Cordelia's face as a result.


	49. To Shanshu in LA, Pt 2

**"To Shanshu in L.A.," Part II**

Cordelia hadn't been able to convince Doyle to leave the office, but she had managed to coax him down the stairs into Angel's apartment. He was now laying on the couch with his hands pressed over his eyes, while Cordelia stood in the kitchen, boiling water for tea. She wasn't sure if his current despondent state was a result of his most recent vision or because of Angel's apparently dismal future, but she suspected it was the latter.

The kettle began to whistle, causing her to remove it from the burner and continue with the tea-making business. Not that she expected Doyle to drink any tea unless she added a few shots of whiskey to it.

Several moments later she carried two steaming hot mugs of tea to the living area where Doyle now appeared to be sleeping. As she placed the cups on the coffee table in front of them and sat at the edge of the couch cushions, he opened his eyes and slowly sat up, twisting his body so he could sit properly beside her. His flask still sat on the table, so she made a big show of opening it and dumping some of its contents into his teacup, encouraging him to drink the soothing beverage. He gave her a tired, but thankful smile in return.

"Feeling any better?" She asked gently.

"Not really, no." He sulked, lifting his hands to rub his eyes once again and then placing them heavily on his knees to bear his weight.

"Angel isn't going to die anytime soon, y'know." She said carefully. "You heard Wesley—there's a lot of other stuff that needs to happen first. Angel will probably outlive us all."

"I get that." Doyle replied in a raspy voice, grated by exhaustion. "Ah…it just all seems so pointless if death's all there is at the end of the road."

"Isn't that usually all there is at the end?" Cordelia asked rhetorically. "We all die someday. Even immortals."

Doyle's brow wrinkled at her last statement. "Well, y'know that immortal means—"

"Of course, I know what it means. I'm not an idiot. I'm just saying, nothing lasts forever." Cordelia clarified. "And since when is the whole 'help the hopeless' thing about getting a reward anyway? I thought you and Angel both just wanted to help people and atone for your sins or whatever?"

Doyle nodded slowly in reply and then sat back so he was sinking into the couch cushions. "It's not about a reward." He explained. "I'm not saying there should be a pot of gold at the end. I'm talking 'bout forgiveness, yeah? That's the thing about atonement, it generally comes with absolution. If the prophecy said 'heaven' rather than death, it'd cast a different light on the subject."

"Well, Angel didn't seem all that bothered by the whole death thing." Cordelia reasoned. "Maybe you should try channeling some of his zen."

"That ain't zen, darlin'." Doyle remarked regretfully, giving her a meaningful look. "That's detachment. And that's the part that worries me most. How's Angel supposed to stay motivated to fight the good fight if he's cut off from humanity? How's he gonna walk that fine line between monster and man if he's forgotten how to _be_ a man? The Powers That Be didn't just send me here with visions, Cordelia. They sent me to help keep the guy connected. And I'm pretty sure that future version of you kept me around for the same reason." Doyle sighed heavily, letting his head drop backwards onto the back of the couch. "For what? To shepherd Angel toward his death and convince him it's still not okay to start snacking on the victims, no matter how tasty they might appear."

"So, that's it? Angel's gonna die so you wish you weren't even here?" She questioned him, feeling the hurt grow deep inside her. Of course, she could understand why Doyle would be concerned for Angel, and why the thought of the vampire's death would upset him. But, Doyle was mortal and had a mortal life to live. A life that right now, included Cordelia. She thought that might count for something.

"I didn't say that." Doyle responded, finally leaning forward to pick up the mug of tea and whiskey she'd prepared for him. He didn't drink from it, merely holding it between his palms, soaking up the warmth. "But, I'm at a bit of a loss here. How can I help him feel like he's a part of the human world, and not just an outsider looking in? We all need that, especially those of us who are not, strictly speaking, human. Angel needs that if he's gonna keep fighting on the right side of things."

Cordelia tilted her head thoughtfully. "You don't have to do it alone." She promised, sliding her hand across the cushions to rest on Doyle's thigh. "We can both help him feel more connected. I care about him, too, y'know... _Oh_ , maybe he'd like a puppy?!"

Doyle's head dropped forward along with his shoulders, telling her that he didn't think a puppy was the solution, but he didn't verbalize his thoughts. Instead, he lifted the mug to his forehead and pushed the warm surface against his flesh.

It was ironic that Doyle could sit there lamenting about Angel's detachment from humanity, while silently detaching himself from the person sitting right beside him. In these moments where he clearly believed himself to be a cosmic failure, he was on an island of his own insecurity and self-loathing and there was almost nothing Cordelia could do to reach him. She could have called him out on it, but figured it would only lead to an argument and further brooding on his part. It was easier just to offer comfort and encouragement and hope that he'd eventually see the light—as he usually did after a period of self-flagellation.

For such a good person, he was awfully hard on himself.

* * *

"Death. Every source says it's death." Wesley shut the book his head had been buried in with an air of finality.

His words were like a shadow passing through the otherwise bright office. Cordelia turned from where she was watering one of the plants. "Wesley! Would you put an ixnay on the eath-day?" She nodded toward Doyle who was sitting quietly on the couch, peeking through the front blinds at a fender bender that had just taken place on the street outside. " _Some of us_ aren't taking it so well."

Doyle dropped the blinds back into their original place, and stood wordlessly from the couch. He crossed the room and headed into Angel's office at the same time Angel reached the top of the stairs. A loaded stare passed between the two men, who'd barely spoken to each other that morning and still weren't speaking now, instead their communication took place by deadly eye contact only.

Cordelia popped her head into the doorway wearing her brightest smile, hoping to diffuse the dark cloud that had followed Doyle over the threshold. "Hey boss! You want some coffee?" She asked cheerily. "Or a donut? There's jelly." She had purposely stopped off for a box of donuts that morning, and bought extra jellies, assuming those were Angel's favorites since they were most people's favorites. Not that she thought donuts would make Angel feel more connected, but at least he'd know that someone cared enough to get them. That someone being her. She set aside her watering can and floated into Angel's office, ignoring the glum looks she received from its occupants. "And, I was thinking we should start doing an office birthday thing, where we all chip in for a cake and a card. Maybe even some balloons. Speaking of which, when's your birthday, Angel?"

Angel regarded her enthusiastic babbling with barely veiled disinterest. "I...uh... don't really celebrate." He turned to Doyle, hitching a thumb in Cordelia's direction. "What's this about?"

"Her humanizing influence, remember?" Doyle replied without gusto.

"Do you consider yourself more of a dog or a cat person?" Cordelia asked, ignoring Doyle's lackluster response to her efforts. "There's also a wide variety of caged animals—hamsters, birds, maybe a turtle."

Angel didn't look like he was any one of those things, and seemed all too relieved when Wesley came loping into the office with the scroll of Aberjian in hand. "There are some additional texts I need in order to continue the translation. I've located one at a rare bookstore downtown." He held up the scroll in his hand and gestured toward the stairs leading to Angel's apartment. "I thought it might be best to lock this up with your weapons."

"Good idea." Angel agreed, nodding Wesley toward the staircase.

As the other man descended, Doyle folded his arms across his chest and stepped closer to Angel in an authoritative manner. "Angel, man. You and I have a trip of our own to make." He said. "It's time to talk to the Oracles, yeah?"

"No, it's not." Angel replied, with a hint of irritation in his voice. "I don't need to ask them about this."

"I'm not making this optional, mate." Doyle insisted. "We need answers."

"We already have answers." Angel said stubbornly. "Go yourself if you're so interested."

"Y'know I can't. They don't let lowly messengers like me in, remember? Otherwise, I'd already be there." Doyle persisted. "It has to be you who asks."

"Get over it, Doyle!" Angel barked, raising his voice to make his objection more than clear. "Your dream of a happy ending to all this is nothing but that—a _dream_ , a fantasy."

"More like a vision." Doyle argued.

"Is that right? Because you know what I think? I think this is about you _hating_ those visions and wanting to believe that maybe, someday, they'll go away. Because if I'm forgiven, you must be forgiven as well." Angel was simmering now, which was much scarier than if he'd just blown his top. Cordelia found herself taking a step back, having never witnessed Doyle and Angel go head to head like this. It was uncomfortable; she was glad it wasn't something that happened very often. "Maybe, if you're lucky, your visions will go away after I die. That's something you can still hope for."

Angel whirled around and headed back down the stairs to his apartment below, leaving Doyle glowering at his rapidly descending form. Cordelia turned her eyes toward Doyle, donning her most sympathetic face. He didn't acknowledge her as he turned in the opposite direction and stormed straight through the outer office and proceeded out the front door.

Knowing better than to race out after him, she made her way back to the outer office, opened the box of donuts and took a jelly for herself. Hopefully, Doyle would cool off by the time she finished her donut.

* * *

Doyle heard the door open behind him and the smell of Cordelia's perfume reached his nostrils moments later. He tossed the cigarette he'd been smoking on the ground and stubbed it out with his toe. Not that his smoking was any big secret, but he still tried to avoid doing it in front of her.

"Hey." She said walking down the front steps of their building and sitting on the step he currently occupied.

"Hey." He replied glumly.

"You wanna talk about it?" She asked gently.

"What's there to say that hasn't already been said?" Doyle responded, staring down at the still smoldering butt of his cigarette inches away from his shoe. "Angel wants me to get over it. Guess that's what I'm gonna have to do."

"Well, we both know that won't happen." She remarked, with a dry laugh. "You're like a dog with a bone when it comes to Angel's redemption gig. It's pretty much your reason for existing. Both literally and figuratively."

"Not helping, Cordy." Doyle grumbled, wishing he hadn't tossed away that cigarette after all.

"Like I said last night, I do want to help." She reminded him. "So, I was thinking we could find Angel a hobby—he likes art, right? Maybe he'd like some art supplies or something crafty."

Doyle dropped his head in quiet frustration. When he raised it again, he tried to maintain the most patient and grateful façade he could under the circumstances. "Listen, Princess, it's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do, but Angel taking up knitting won't cut it, yeah?"

"Not knitting...although knitting seems to work well with the senior population and Angel's _really_ old." Cordelia noted, before sighing heavily at Doyle's stubbornness. "I mean, we have to try _something_. He might not want to be connected, but we have to make him want it. Isn't that the point?"

"I'm not sure there is a point." Doyle muttered under his breath, turning away from her to stare at the traffic going by. He absently pulled out the flask he'd kept in his jacket pocket from the night before. As he polished off what remained inside the flask, he knew he must have struck that final nerve of hers. He heard another weary sigh emanate from her lips and her next words were laced with sarcasm rather than sympathy.

"What would you rather do, huh?" She asked bitingly. "Take him to a bar and get him fall-down drunk? Will that help him feel more human? Does that work for you?"

"Heeey." He whined back at her. "I'll have ya know I take offense to that."

"And I'll have _you_ know that I don't take it back!" She rebutted. "Look at you, Doyle. You have one fight with Angel and you're out here chain-smoking and day-drinking and rejecting all constructive ideas by yours truly. Look up the definition of 'helpful'—this isn't it."

"Cordelia, I'm not… please don't do this right now." He begged, with an edge of warning in his voice. He could tell there was something else bothering her—something that had likely been bothering her for a while now—and it was now bubbling to the surface. He knew she didn't want to hit him while he was down, but she'd likely do it anyway. The last thing he needed was to be fighting with her on top of everything else.

"Don't what? Remind you that Angel's done a far better job of passing for a functioning human being than you have in recent history." She said reproachfully. Although she had softened her tone, the words themselves were cutting enough. "He has friends and he has a job and he has a pretty terrific fashion sense for a guy who was born over two centuries ago. And back in Sunnydale he even lived in a mansion! If you're trying to lead by example, you're not doing such a bang up job there, buddy."

"Can't say I'm understanding your point here." He said bitterly. "Aside from the fact that ya think I'm a screw up. That's coming through loud and clear."

"The solution to Angel's detachment problem isn't to detach along with him." Cordelia argued. "Unless, he's right and this is really about you."

"Don't you start with that, too!" Doyle shouted in exasperation. "This isn't about me. I'm not the one who's cut off from the human world. I used to be, yeah, but not anymore."

"You reconnected because of Angel and his mission." She stated resentfully. "It's like in _E.T_., when the little boy and the plant start to die along with the alien guy because they're all linked together and they can't unlink. You need to unlink, Doyle!"

Doyle rubbed at his temple, trying to make sense of the extremely abstract metaphor she was throwing at him. "Huh?"

"You know what? Forget it!" She fired back, standing up abruptly and looming over him as he continued to sit. "It's impossible to reason with you when you're like this."

"Confused is what I am right now, darlin'." Doyle said in mild bewilderment.

"Don't _darling_ me!" She continued to shout, hands firmly planted on her hips. "You may be giving up, but I'm not."

"I never said I was giving up." He tried again. His volume and energy were nowhere near her level, which he knew would probably only infuriate her further. Cordelia didn't like 'kicking a puppy' as she called it—and Doyle apparently had the kicked puppy thing down pat, according to her.

"Could've fooled me!" She yelled, stomping her way up to the top of the steps. She turned to harangue him over her shoulder before passing back through the front door of the building. "I'm going to get Angel those art supplies whether you like it or not. And possibly an ant farm!"

As the front door slammed, signaling Cordelia's departure, Doyle collapsed further into himself. His now empty flask still hung from his right hand and he stared at it for several long moments, wishing it was full. He tossed it back into his pocket and pulled himself off the steps. He listlessly headed off down the street, leaving the office, his despondent friend and enraged girlfriend behind him.

Doyle knew the solution to his problems wasn't going to be found at the bottom of a bottle, but it didn't mean he wasn't going to search there.

* * *

Doyle sat on the metal stool, staring out the window ahead of him. Sitting in front of him was not the glass of whiskey he'd intended to get when he'd left the office, but instead a cup of hot coffee. His objective had been to go to a pub and live up to the exact low expectations Cordelia had just spelled out for him. However, when he actually got to the pub, he'd crossed the street, entered a Starbucks and sat at the front window with an overpriced cup of coffee instead. And he couldn't really explain why he'd done it.

Or maybe he could. Maybe it was because she was right. As much as her words had stung, she had a valid point. The last several months aside, Doyle had spent years perfecting the art of being cut off from humanity. Perhaps, he had forgotten some of the finer points of actually being connected. Angel, on the other hand, had been connected all too recently. He had connected to Buffy, specifically, and then he was forced to walk away from her. That was part of the problem.

Falling in love had really helped Doyle get his head back on straight—it gave him something to hope for, something to strive for, something to desire. Angel couldn't have any of that. He couldn't hope. He couldn't strive. He couldn't desire, because for Angel, that kind of love would lead to destruction. Without that, it was a lot more difficult to feel human. Not that romantic love was the be all end all—there were other types of love that mattered, like friendship and family. But Angel had no family and his best friend was only half-human.

All that aside, Cordelia was still right. Giving up wasn't an option. Just because Angel didn't feel connected to the world, didn't mean Doyle had failed. Not yet. As much as he hated that damn Shanshu prophecy and the implication that death was all that awaited Angel after all the hard work was done, Doyle couldn't lose sight of the mission. Because it still mattered. It still mattered to him, and to Angel and to the whole damn world!

Doyle finished the last dregs of his coffee and tossed it into the receptacle nearby, pushing off his stool and heading back out into the bright afternoon sunshine. He was feeling motivated, which was an unusual temperament for him. He was going back to the office and he was going to make peace with the people he cared about. After that… well, who knew what would happen. Maybe Wesley had translated the prophecy wrong after all. And even if he hadn't, they'd figure out a way to make things work. They always did. Doyle wouldn't have to bear the burden alone—he had not only Cordelia, willing to help—but, Wesley, too.

The street outside the coffee shop wasn't very crowded, so Doyle didn't appreciate the inconsiderate person he felt brush up against him. He tossed a mildly annoyed, "Watch it, bud," over his shoulder and was perplexed to find that no one was there. No one he could see anyway—a bad feeling washed over Doyle as the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

That's when the vision hit. Doyle reached out for a parking meter at the edge of the sidewalk and clung to it in order to remain on his feet. As the figurative jackhammer subsided in his brain, and the dull post-vision throb took its place, Doyle wished desperately that he'd brought his cell phone—he wasn't sure he could walk fast enough back to the office to get the message to Angel in time. But he had barely taken a step when another vision hit him; this one knocking him off his feet.

Even before that vision subsided, there was another.

And another.

And another. And another. .Andanotherandanother…

Doyle no longer had the ability to ascertain where he was, or what was happening around him. He was drowning in pain. And noise. So much. Too much.

He couldn't hear his own screaming over the screaming in his head. He couldn't feel his own thrashing over the pain of others pouring into his mind. He couldn't see the concerned citizens rushing to his aid, nor could he object when they called 911.

* * *

"I come bearing gifts!"

Cordelia breezed through the doorway of Angel's apartment and continued straight through, dumping the bags she'd been loaded down with on the kitchen table. Angel turned from the weapons cabinet, where he had placed the scroll of Aberjian once again. He couldn't help staring at the words, even if they meant nothing to him. He still felt drawn to the thing, whether it told of his death or not.

He locked the case and headed toward the kitchen to see what Cordelia was so excited about.

"I hope you like pastels, because I got an amazing discount." She squealed enthusiastically. "You'll be painting for months! Oh, and I didn't have luck with the ant farm thing, but I got something better…" She lifted a red and blue plastic container out of one of the bags and held it up proudly. "Sea monkeys! All you have to do is add water and voila! Instant pets. See, the instructions are right there on the box."

Angel raised a brow at the _Amazing Live Sea Monkeys_ package she shoved into his hands, wondering what kind of pet could be "created" just by adding water. "Uh… thanks." He said, staring at the bizarre cartoon image on the cover of the package and then placing it down next to the overstuffed bags now littering his kitchen table. "There's… a lot of stuff here."

She nodded along, unfazed by any reservations he had about her good intentions. "Do you feel maybe just a little more connected?" She asked hopefully, patting the Sea Monkey box on the table. "Here, I have an idea, why don't we hug?" Before he could object she threw her arms around him and gave him an encouraging squeeze, leaving him with a bemused stare. He finally lifted his hands to unwind her arms from around his shoulders.

"This is all real nice, Cordelia." He said, trying not to seem ungrateful. He then darted his eyes to the empty staircase behind her and back to the face of the brightly smiling woman before him. "Do you know where Doyle went?"

He watched as her smile faltered and she rolled her eyes in obvious irritation. "I don't know." She said turning toward the bags and unpacking a few items from one of them. "I can probably guess, though."

"Is everything okay?" Angel asked, concerned by her dismissive tone.

"Doyle and I _may_ have had a little tiff." She answered, waving her hand in the air as if it wasn't a big deal. "I'm sure he'll come crawling back soon, stinking drunk and begging forgiveness."

Angel frowned at that, hoping that their disagreement hadn't been the result of anything he had said to Doyle earlier. He already felt bad enough about that. He knew it wasn't true—or even if it was partly true, he knew Doyle's concern for him was genuine.

The phone began to ring, and Angel made his way across the room to pick it up. "Hello? …Harry, what? Slow down. Tell me what happened."

Angel saw Cordelia's head snap upward at the mention of Doyle's ex-wife's name. She stared questioningly at Angel who brought his own panicked eyes up to meet hers. He spoke into the receiver once again. "What hospital? ...We're on our way." He hung up the phone and started moving toward Cordelia, to usher her toward the door. "It's Doyle. He's at the hospital. We have to go."

"Is he okay?!" She cried, clinging to Angel's arm and moving in sync with him toward the underground garage where they could retrieve his car. "What happened?!"

"I really don't know." He replied, not wanting to scare her, but not knowing what to make of Harry's frantic plea from the other end of the phone line.

They were far too panicked, and far too rushed to sense the shadowy figure who lingered close by, waiting for their departure. Once alone, the figure made its way to the weapons case, breaking the lock, removing the scroll… and placing an explosive in its place.

The connection was severed.

The scroll retrieved.

Soon rubble would be all that remained…


	50. To Shanshu in LA, Pt 3

**"To Shanshu in L.A.," Part III**

Angel raced through the hospital corridor, having to remind himself not to run faster than Cordelia's human legs could carry her. He'd been more than a little tempted to toss her over his shoulder and race upstairs from the parking garage to the ICU where Doyle was being kept. As they passed through the double-doors that led to the nurse's station in the center of the Intensive Care Unit, Angel spotted Harriet's familiar head of honey-blonde curls immediately.

They hurried to where she was pacing outside the room that must belong to Doyle, looking every bit as alarmed as Angel himself felt, and he had no doubt Cordelia must feel as well—judging by the speed at which she'd driven them there.

"Harry! Where is he?!" Angel demanded, catching the petite woman by the upper arms. "What did they tell you?"

Harry shook her head, eyes wide with fear and confusion. She pointed vaguely to the closed door behind her. "He collapsed on the street and some bystanders called 911. They're calling it a psychotic episode—he's been screaming his head off… Angel, they have no idea what's wrong with him. They can't even figure out how to sedate him."

Angel loosened his grip on her, and took a step back, realization dawning on him. "It won't stop?" He asked, nearly under his breath, wondering how it was possible that Doyle could be having a vision that would last this long.

"Oh God! He must be in so much pain!" Cordelia gasped, having come to the same conclusion as Angel already had. She pushed her way in front of the smaller woman who was blocking the entrance to Doyle's room. "I need to see him."

Harry looked distraught, having very little in the way of answers. Again, she gestured to the closed door behind her. "The doctors are with him, Cordelia—they made me leave the room." She swallowed hard turning her eyes back up to Angel and lowering her voice. "They don't think it's a seizure—it can't be, or he'd be dead by now. Demon DNA or not."

The door behind them flew open and Doyle's wails of agony could be heard from within, causing them all to visibly react to the sound. A doctor appeared in the doorway calling to the nurse still in the room behind him as he made a notation on the chart in his hand. "Try another five mil of Ativan."

Angel caught a glimpse of Doyle thrashing on the bed inside, and he would've rushed forward if Cordelia hadn't done so first, attempting to push her way past the doctor. The doctor blocked her path, and motioned for the orderly in the room to assist. "I'm sorry, miss, the patient isn't stable enough for visitors. Immediate family only. I'm going to have to ask you to move to the waiting area—"

"I am his family!" Cordelia shouted impatiently. She looked past the doctor at Doyle, still in the throes of a massive vision. "He needs me!" She insisted, trying to muscle her way past the doctor. This time it was the orderly who filled the doorway, and Angel couldn't be sure she wouldn't haul out and punch the guy, despite the fact that he appeared to be made of brick.

The doctor looked confused, and directed his questioning gaze past both Angel and Cordelia toward the woman behind them. "I thought… um, Mrs, Doyle, can I speak to you for a moment?"

"Why are you asking her?" Cordelia demanded, tossing a scowl in Harriet's direction. "That's his _ex-wife_."

Harry gave the doctor a small nod and the doctor put up no further objection. Perhaps, he realized it was a complicated situation of which he wanted no part. He stepped out of the doorway and the orderly followed suit, allowing Cordelia to sprint into Doyle's room and directly toward the bed. She immediately placed her hands on Doyle's body, which was throttling hard against the restraints that kept him pinned down to the mattress. Angel watched through the doorway as she attempted to soothe him as she did so often in the office—one hand she placed on his forehead and the other in the middle of his chest, shushing him like a child. Angel wished it would've made a difference, but Doyle's wailing and groaning didn't lessen with Cordelia's presence. Judging by his appearance, he probably wasn't even aware she was there.

"Can you tell us anything?" Angel asked the doctor, whose name tag identified him as 'Evans.' He snapped the smaller man's attention back in his direction. He strongly doubted Doyle's problem was medical in nature. Granted, he didn't know enough about how the visions affected Doyle physically; he couldn't be sure what the doctors thought was going on here. Nor could he be sure what they'd think if Doyle suddenly turned green and sprouted sharp spikes from his face. It was dangerous having him in a hospital, not that they had a choice in the matter.

"I wish I could." Doctor Evans said apologetically. "We can't run any scans until he's sedated, and nothing we've given him seems to be working."

"He's been like this since he came in?" Angel asked, nodding toward Doyle's writhing body in the background.

The doctor bobbed his head in affirmation. "Witnesses said he walked out of a coffee shop, stumbled and then collapsed. Does he have a history of mental illness or drug use? Anything you can tell us that might be helpful?" The doctor's question was directed toward Angel, but also fell back toward Harry who had moved closer to Angel's side.

"There is a rare DNA mutation in his family." Harry mentioned, giving Angel a look that told him exactly why she felt she needed to bring this up. "It might show up in his blood-work, but it shouldn't have caused something like this."

"You can't help him." Angel uttered, almost to himself. The wheels were turning—he'd objected to going to the Oracles for his own needs, but this changed the tide. He had to consult them now, or he may very well lose Doyle. And that wasn't something he was going to let happen.

"Something had better work." Doctor Evans explained, wearing a grave expression that told Angel all he needed to know. The doctor's eyes turned back toward Harriet. "I must inform you, Mrs. Doyle, the stress on his body is causing severe tachycardia—his pulse is elevated to a dangerous level. If we don't find a way to lower it soon…"

Harry placed a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes against the doctor's foreboding words. Angel slid an arm around her shoulders, offering whatever comfort he could provide to the woman who obviously still cared deeply for her ex-husband. "We understand." Angel replied, nodding to the doctor. "Do whatever you need to do. Please."

The doctor met Angel's eyes questioningly, perhaps wondering what relationship he had to Doyle. Doctor Evans didn't bother to ask, only nodding in return and heading off down the hallway to go about his rounds.

"What's going on here, Angel?" Harry's strained voice called him back to reality. She had tears in her eyes now, and her lips trembled as she stared up at him. "What has Francis gotten himself into now? Is it drugs?"

"He didn't do anything to cause this." Angel assured her. He didn't need to know exactly what had happened to know it wasn't something Doyle did to himself. It wasn't even about Doyle. "This is because of me."

Harry's eyes grew wider with worry. She glanced over at Cordelia who still had her hands placed over Doyle's thrashing body and was now watching as a nurse injected something into the IV in his left arm.

"I have to go." Angel said. "Will you stay with them? Call me if anything changes."

Harry nodded slowly as Angel pushed a business card into her hand—this one had his cell number written on the back. "Of course." She promised, with a heavy sigh. "I'm not going anywhere."

"If Cordelia asks, tell her I'll be back in a little while with Wesley." Angel explained, as he turned to head back the way he'd come. "Tell her I'm going to find a way to fix this."

* * *

Cordelia splashed some cold water on her face and stared at her pale complexion in the terrible fluorescent lighting. She had been forced to leave Doyle's bedside by the beckoning of her bladder. Nothing else would've torn her away from him, even though seeing him like this was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. To watch the man she loved writhe in agony. Hearing him scream and not being able to do a thing to stop it; not being able to soothe away this vision, because it was endless. Her chest tightened at the pain she felt for him. Thankfully, the doctors had been able to sedate him finally—he should be near comatose, they had said. Although, she doubted the coma was as peaceful or painless as the doctors tried to make her believe. She knew better. He was still suffering.

Ripping a length of paper towel off the nearby towel-holder, Cordelia blotted the moisture from her face and tossed the crumpled towel into the trashcan. She took a deep breath, bolstering up her strength to face what lay on the other side of the Ladies Room door.

She pushed the bathroom door open and headed back across the ICU to Doyle's room, which was now empty. Her breath caught in her throat as she feared the worst and she whirled around to head back to the nurse's station. That's when she saw the room wasn't as empty as she thought.

"They took him for a CAT scan." Harriet explained, standing up from the seat she had been quietly occupying in the corner.

Cordelia blinked at the other woman in bewilderment. "And you let them?!" She questioned in rapidly building horror, fearing what the doctor's might see when scanning him. Fearing what they might _do_ once they saw.

Harry stepped closer to Cordelia raising a hand to reassure her that it would be okay. "He's in his human form, Cordelia. They should only see a human brain." She explained calmly.

" _Should?_ What if they don't? What if he changes?" Cordelia asked worriedly. "Next thing you know the government will be swarming in here for a Roswell-style cover up."

"He's heavily sedated." Harry rationalized, still maintaining her calm disposition. "If it didn't happen before, while he was going through all that trauma, it's not going to happen now. I'm confident of that."

"You'd better be right." Cordelia grumbled.

Cordelia wrapped her arms around her midsection, holding herself and trying not to take out all her anxiety and frustration on Doyle's ex-wife. It would be an easy thing to do, but it would accomplish nothing under the circumstances. Truth be told, Cordelia didn't want to be alone with this. She would have preferred Angel being there, but she understood that he'd gone off to get Wesley and search for a mystical solution to Doyle's medical crisis. And Harry knew much more about Doyle's demon physiology than Cordelia did. As much as Cordelia resented the fact that the doctors kept deferring to Harry, Cordelia probably wouldn't have been able to answer all the medical questions nearly as coherently. Still, she flinched involuntarily every time she heard one of the doctors say "Mrs. Doyle."

Her head shot up, and she allowed the ice that had just flowed through her veins to creep into her voice. "Why did the hospital call _you_?"

"Francis has some seriously outdated emergency contact information on file." Harry replied patiently. "You should have him update it."

"I will." Cordelia huffed, trying not to let such a trivial detail bother her more than it should.

"Knowing Francis, he probably thought he'd never come to a hospital ever again." Harry said with a mirthless laugh. "He might have rejected his demon side, but he certainly let it convince him that he wasn't really human anymore either."

"I know all about it, thanks." Cordelia retorted. "You might know _Francis_ and you might know _demons_ , but I'm the one who knows _Doyle_ , okay?"

"I didn't meant to imply…" Harry said apologetically, and then gave up trying to explain something that really warranted no explanation. "I'm just trying to help, Cordelia. I'm worried about him, same as you."

"Not exactly the same." Cordelia snapped back. There she went, taking it all out on Harry just like she told herself not to do.

Harry seemed hurt by that last comment, but she had enough of a backbone not to slink away, and she had enough grace not to snap back. "I thought we were past all this." She said smoothly, without a hint of bitterness. "I'm not here as competition, and I don't want to leave, but if that's what you want, I'll respect your wishes."

Cordelia stared at the other woman, and then dropped some of her icy veneer, unwrapping her arms from her body. "No, you're better at talking to the doctors than I am." She conceded. "I'm just…."

"Worried. Frustrated. Powerless?" Harriet nodded in understanding, clearly identifying with all of those sentiments. "You may not feel like you're helping him, but you are, just by being here. I may not know what's going on exactly, but I do know he'll fight if he has something worth fighting for. Clearly, he does." She gave Cordelia a comforting smile.

Cordelia couldn't bring herself to return the smile, instead she felt her throat go dry and her stomach turn over. She wanted to believe that she was giving Doyle strength to fight what he was going through, but the last conversation they'd had wasn't a pleasant one. They'd been arguing. That's what she'd be left with if he never woke up from the hell he was living.

"Or someone to fight with." She mumbled regretfully, despite the fact that the person she was speaking to had no business knowing such personal information.

Harry took the comment in stride. "That, too." The sympathy and compassion in Harry's eyes deepened as she responded to the unspoken subtext. "Something tells me that's at least part of what he sees in you."

That almost brought a smile to Cordelia's lips, knowing it was probably true. "Yeah, the feeling's mutual."

"That man's as stubborn as a damn ox." Harriet said with a laugh. "That's why I know he's gonna make it."

Cordelia wanted to laugh, too. She wanted to agree—Doyle would get through this. But she couldn't get past the heaviness in her chest. The private hell of her own—wishing her final words to Doyle had been ones of love rather than anger. Wishing they wouldn't be final words at all.

Worst of all, the words of love she wanted so desperately for him to hear, had never been spoken at all.

* * *

Angel stared down at the man in the hospital bed before him, listening to the flat lining heart monitor.

He was thankful it belonged to someone other than Wesley. It was nothing short of a miracle that the former Watcher had survived the explosion that had leveled the rest of Angel's apartment and the office building above.

Two down. One to go. All of Angel's friends were in jeopardy. All of them suffering because of him.

No, they were more than friends—these people were his family.

As Angel left Wesley's room and headed to check in on Doyle, he felt a surge of protectiveness. And regret. He regretted lashing out at Doyle in anger for doing what Doyle was supposed to do—he made Angel care.

Now Angel did care—he cared a lot. He cared about Doyle, his mentor, his best friend, his connection to the Powers That Be. He cared about Cordelia, who he'd hardly known back in Sunnydale, but was now someone he looked out for, and felt responsible for. She filled the place in his heart once occupied by his younger sister centuries before. He cared about Wesley, who he now valued as a source of knowledge, as well as companionship.

These people mattered to him; they connected him. And someone was trying desperately to sever that connection.

This was going to end, as soon as Angel figured out a way to end it.

Wesley would heal on his own over time. But, Doyle's affliction would never be solved by modern medicine. His visions came from the Powers That Be; it was the Powers That Be who could stop them. And the Oracles were the only way to reach them.

Angel bumped into Harry as she exited the elevator onto the ICU. She held a cup of coffee in each hand, and smiled apologetically as he approached. He could see the sadness in her eyes, despite her attempt to remain stoic. "I would have grabbed three cups if I knew you were back."

"I'm not staying long." Angel assured her. "Has there been any change?" He asked unnecessarily, knowing full well there wasn't likely to be any improvement. He had to say something. It's what people did in hospitals when someone they loved was sick.

She shook her head mournfully as they headed in the direction of Doyle's room. "They managed to sedate him and run some scans, but they still can't find a medical reason for his condition." Angel's non-reaction didn't go unnoticed by Harry. She was an observant woman; she had to be in her line of work. "That doesn't surprise you."

"It doesn't." He confirmed without offering any further explanation.

"I hope that means you know how to help him." They had reached the closed door to Doyle's room and Harriet stopped short, holding out one of the cups toward Angel. "This is for Cordelia."

Angel stared blankly at the coffee cup for a moment before slowly reaching out to take it. "You're not coming in?" He asked, as his hand hovered over the doorknob.

Harry's eyes darted uncomfortably toward the closed door and then back up to Angel's face, flashing him a weak smile. "I think it's probably best if I wait out here. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you, though."

Angel gave her a thankful nod as he watched her back away, headed toward the small waiting area down the hall.

Once inside the room Angel saw why Harry was, so reticent to enter. Cordelia had climbed into the bed with Doyle and wrapped herself around him, lightly running her fingers over the hair at his temple. She had been whispering softly, close to Doyle's ear. When she heard Angel enter, she sat halfway up in a defensive position, as if she was a lioness, ready to attack. Her features softened as she saw it was Angel standing there.

She sat up straighter, smoothing the hair out of her face, but she didn't move from the bed. Angel could see the evidence of tears—her eyes were red and puffy, with hints of makeup smeared below them. He'd never in all the years he'd known Cordelia, seen her in this state. It, once again, reminded him how different she was from the girl who'd started working for him all those months ago. She had changed, and there was no greater evidence of her growth than her devotion to Doyle.

Angel moved closer to where she was, placing the coffee cup on the small table beside the bed. "That's for you. From Harry."

Cordelia said nothing in reply, and he could see the unshed tears that had accumulated in her eyes. He reached out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, as well as to lean over her and get a closer look at Doyle. Angel saw Doyle's eyes were wide open, twitching back and forth, seeing something that wasn't there. The rest of his body remained motionless, but if it weren't for the deluge of heavy sedatives coursing through his veins, he'd still be thrashing around in torment from the onslaught of visions that were invading his mind.

"I'm so scared." Cordelia said, her voice hoarse and unsteady. "Why is this happening to him, Angel?"

"I don't know." Angel admitted apologetically. "But, I'm going to find out."

She lifted her hands to her forehead, rubbing the deep lines that had formed from worry. "He needs to come back." She said barely above a whisper, but she may as well have been screaming into Angel's undead ears. "I need him."

Angel squeezed her shoulder in consolation. "I need him, too, Cordelia. We're gonna get him back."

Her hands slid down to cover her mouth and a single tear escaped. It began a long slow trek down the curve of her cheek. "Angel… I never told him." She whimpered. "And he can't hear me say it now." Her tears began spilling freely as she let her stone façade crumble and admitted what Angel had already known. "I love him and I never told him."

"Shhh. It's okay." Angel hushed her, pulling her forward into his arms and holding her tightly. She clung to him, crying into his chest, her body softly shuddering with quiet sobs. "He knows. Even if you've never said it, he knows."

"I _should've_ said it." Cordelia sobbed, her voice muffled against Angel's shirt. "He's said it to me dozens of times. And I've never… not once." She pulled back, wiping some of the tears from her cheeks and sniffling. Her gaze traveled back toward Doyle's unseeing eyes. "It's never been this way with anyone else. Where it was so easy for me to feel and know it's real. I just want to tell him."

"Cordelia, I promise you, I'm not going to let him be taken from us." Angel insisted in a low voice, again placing his hand on her shoulder in a sign of comfort and support. "You'll have a chance to tell him you love him when he can hear it."

Cordelia nodded so slightly that Angel wasn't entirely certain she had heard him. She seemed entranced by the face of the man she loved, her fingertips were magnetically drawn back to his skin as she brushed some hair off his forehead tenderly.

"Cordelia?" Angel called her name softly, not wanting to disrupt her, but needing her to know there might be danger still coming. "Wesley's here, too. There was… an explosion, at the office—he's alive, but it was a close call."

She once again tore her eyes and fingers away from Doyle to look at Angel. On top of the stress and fear and grief, he now saw something that surprised him. Anger.

"Wolfram & Hart." She spat the name of the law firm as if it were a curse.

"Probably." Angel agreed. "But, they must've hired some serious help." He said indicating Doyle's current state as something decidedly mystical.

"They have endless resources." Cordelia pointed out, sliding her legs off the bed so she was sitting on the side of it with her feet planted on the floor. She lifted Doyle's hand, holding it in between both of her own. "It's not safe. We need to get him out of here."

"He needs to stay sedated." Angel reminded her, gesturing toward the IV that was keeping the steady flow of drugs streaming into Doyle's vascular system. "And I don't think Wesley can be moved yet either. I'll ask Gunn and his gang to guard the hospital. They'll keep all of you safe, while I put an end to this."

Angel dipped his head and his eyes landed on Doyle's hand wrapped protectively between Cordelia's own. A strange black symbol was evident on the back of Doyle's hand, which caused Angel to reach out, twisting the marking into closer view.

"How long has this been here?" He questioned.

"I've never seen it before today." Cordelia admitted, rubbing the black mark with her fingertips. "What do you think it is?"

"The key." Angel replied.


	51. To Shanshu in LA, Pt 4

**"To Shanshu in L.A.," Part IV**

"You need to eat something." Harry plopped the fruit cup on the small tray by Doyle's bedside and pushed it closer to where Cordelia had been sitting for the better part of the evening. The cold cup of coffee that Angel had left there earlier still sat untouched. "You'll be no good to him if you starve yourself to death."

Glued to Doyle's bedside, gripping his hand tightly between her own as if her life depended on it, Cordelia had barely stepped out of his hospital room in the last 24 hours. At this point, it did feel like her life depended on it. Feeling his thready pulse against her fingers and the warmth of his skin were the only things that calmed her, reminded her that he was still there with her—even though he was clearly _not_ there with her in anything but the physical sense.

"Cordelia, did you hear me?" Harriet's voice permeated Cordelia's deep cavern of Doyle-centric thoughts. The other woman shoved the tiny tray even closer, forcing Cordelia to sit up straight to avoid being hit with it.

She had to hand it to Doyle's ex-wife—Harry was determined to be a friend no matter how difficult Cordelia had made it for her. And Cordelia knew she had been making it difficult for most of the day, for reasons that were basically non-existent. Harry wasn't the enemy. She wasn't trying to do anything other than help. If Cordelia was able to feel anything other than fear and anxiety, she'd probably feel guilt for treating the other woman so dismissively. As it was, she was done with the petty show of territorialism and was now desperate for a distraction from her dark thoughts.

Cordelia reluctantly retracted one of her hands from Doyle's and reached over obediently, plucking a grape off the top of the fruit cup and popping it into her mouth. Harry gave an approving nod. "Much better. When I come back, I expect it to be empty." She said as she moved away, headed toward the front door of Doyle's room.

"Harry?" Cordelia called softly, causing the head of curls to halt in place. "You can sit here for a while… if you want."

Harry turned back toward Cordelia, although she kept her demeanor relatively unwavering, it was obvious that she was surprised by the invitation. Probably because at no point in the day had Cordelia been welcoming.

"Thank you." Harriet said, gratefully accepting the offer. She pulled the second chair in the room closer to where Cordelia sat by Doyle's bedside and settled into it.

"No, thank _you_." Cordelia amended. "For not leaving, even when I was being a heinous bitch."

"You weren't…" Harry started to object, and then tilted her head thoughtfully and changed her statement midstream. "Okay, maybe you _were_. But, I didn't stay for you, I stayed for him. I know this isn't easy—seeing someone you love like this."

Cordelia blew out a long stream of air, fidgeting with the medical bracelet on Doyle's wrist. _Doyle, Allen F._ He would probably hate that. "I guess you would understand. I mean, you _used_ to love him."

"Not to rock an already unstable boat, but I still do." Harry clarified; she quickly elaborated before Cordelia had a chance to react. "I'm not _in love_ with him, of course. That's ancient history. But, I do love him—that will never change. I hope you're okay with that."

"I'm okay with that." Cordelia assured the other woman, feeling foolish for having felt so threatened by her in the first place. She was reminded of how much she'd enjoyed hanging out with Harry when they'd first met. She'd learned so much about Doyle from his ex, and if she wanted to, she was sure she could learn even more now. Although, she much preferred learning about Doyle, from Doyle himself.

"Why do you call him Francis?" Cordelia wondered, eyes still glued to the identifying bracelet around his wrist. Okay, so maybe there were certain things it didn't hurt to ask Harriet. "Why not Allen?"

"When we first met, he introduced himself as Francis." Harry answered simply, as her eyes darted toward the man in question. "That's what his mother calls him, too. He was named after his grandfather; he also has an uncle named Allen—and an older cousin, I think. When you have that many people in one family with the same first name, it can get confusing, so by the time Doyle was born, he was called by his middle name to avoid confusion."

"Y'know what would also help avoid confusion?" Cordelia snarked. "Picking a different first name to begin with."

Harry laughed in response. "It's an Irish thing. Their ways are not our ways."

"I didn't know he had a first name until you showed up." Cordelia confessed. "He was just Doyle. He still is…just Doyle."

"That doesn't surprise me." Harry responded. "I don't think he's terribly fond of either of his given names. He once made me promise that if we ever had a son, we wouldn't name him Allen or Francis." Harry stopped talking abruptly, and dropped her gaze into her lap. Cordelia had felt a slight ache in her chest at the thought of Doyle and Harry talking about having children together, but it wasn't exactly a surprise. Doyle had already said as much. Still, the memory had to hurt Harry far more than it hurt Cordelia—which is why Cordelia slid one of her hands away from Doyle and clasped Harry's hand instead, giving it a comforting squeeze.

When Harry lifted her head, Cordelia saw the light sheen of tears in her eyes, and the weak smile that accompanied them. Even so, Harry squeezed Cordelia's hand gratefully in return and then leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. Apparently, there was nothing more to say for the moment.

The two women who loved Doyle sat in silence, holding hands and listening to the steady sound of Doyle's heart monitor beeping.

* * *

When Angel had wheeled Wesley into Doyle's hospital room with the scroll of Aberjian in his lap, he'd been surprised to find both Cordelia and Harry sitting together at Doyle's bedside. Cordelia had jumped out of her seat at their arrival, her rapid-fire questions coming one after the other. Angel wasn't going to waste precious time explaining the gory details of what led to the scroll's recovery, but he confirmed for her what she really wanted to know—what had been done to Doyle could be undone. And they were going to undo it, right here, right now.

Angel hadn't been in time to stop Wolfram & Hart from performing whatever ritual they had needed the scroll to complete, but he'd destroyed the demon, Vocah, who had put this hex on Doyle in the first place. And he'd retrieved the scroll from the hand of the man who'd all too recently fought beside them—Lindsey McDonald. Too bad for Lindsey he hadn't let go of the scroll sooner, because now he was down one hand, having lost the left one to Angel's scythe. He'd probably be holding a grudge about that, but he really only had himself to blame.

As Wesley unrolled the scroll and began reading the incantation, Angel looked questioningly toward Harry—wondering if she wanted to be present for mystical goings-on such as these, but Cordelia had surprised him further, by clasping the other woman's hand in her own, as she continued to hold Doyle's hand with the other. Both women were entirely focused on Doyle, and had taken no notice of Angel's hesitation about Harriet's presence. Angel had no further thoughts on the matter, all energy concentrated on the friend he was desperate to release from his psychic prison.

Wesley's voice droned on and on, hoarse from overuse after his own ordeal, but he kept going, steadily all the while. "And if the beast shalt find thee, and touch thee, thou shalt be wounded in thy soul and thou shalt know madness. The beast shalt attack and cripple thee and thou shalt know neither friend nor family. But thou shalt undo the beast. Thou shalt find the sacred words of Anatole and thou shalt be restored. Three times shalt thou say these words: unbind, unbind, unbind!"

A brilliant white flash filled the room, leaving Angel and the rest of the room's occupants blinking rapidly, to readjust their irises to the room's natural brightness.

Angel had been leaning over the opposite side of the bed from where Cordelia and Harry stood, and his eyes landed on the back of Doyle's hand, which Cordelia raised up in show. "It's gone." She breathed, trailing her fingers lightly over Doyle's pale, unmarked flesh.

As if in reply to Cordelia's voice and touch, Doyle's eyes blinked closed and then reopened; they darted around the room before landing steadfastly on her face, hovering closest to his own. "Cordy?" He rasped.

She beamed down at him, overcome by the lucidity she could recognize in his pale-green eyes and the sound of her name on his lips. "Doyle." She whispered back excitedly, letting out a relieved sob. Tears snuck their way out of her eyes once again, but this time they were tears of relief and joy, rather than sorrow. "Thank God you're back."

A nurse had stuck her head in the door, probably attracted by the bright light that had emanated from the room moments earlier. She wore a face that spoke of her own shock. "I'll get Doctor Evans." She informed them, disappearing once again.

Doyle closed his eyes again, and his body began to shake uncontrollably as tears began spilling from his own eyes. "There was so much pain…" He mumbled under his breath. "I saw them—I felt it all."

Cordelia had let go of Harry's hand by now so she could move closer to Doyle. She wrapped her arms around his neck comfortingly, letting him quietly sob into her shoulder. Her hair landed across his face, soaking up the tears that made their way down his cheeks. "Shhhh. It's okay, Doyle." She soothed him, holding him tightly and only moving enough to kiss his forehead tenderly. "We'll help them. That's what we do. Tell him, Angel?"

Doyle's red-rimmed eyes reopened and searched for Angel's face in the room; Cordelia stroked his cheek, wiping away the wetness that still clung there.

"That's right." Angel responded, moving closer into Doyle's field of vision. His friend's eyes were glassy from both the tears and the sedatives, and his normally pale skin was even pastier than usual. Doyle looked like he'd been through hell, and Angel had no doubt that was true. But, Angel could barely contain his own elation at seeing the other man conscious and aware. If Angel was going to do this job, he needed the help of all the people around him, but most of all, he needed Doyle. He needed his best friend. And now he had him back.

Angel took Doyle's other hand into his own, squeezing it reassuringly. "We'll help them all. Together."

"I thought it'd never end." Doyle groaned, as his eyes lazily traveled back over to Cordelia's face. "I thought you were gone, Princess…"

"I was right here, waiting for you." Cordelia replied earnestly. "And… Harry's here, too. See? She's been here the whole time. And Wesley—he's the one that undid the curse."

Doyle's brows wrinkled as his drowsy eyes landed on Harry, and lingered there this time. "Thought I was seeing things." He slurred.

"Good to see you, too, Francis." Harry said, reaching out to pat his chest affectionately. "But, I'll be honest, you look like hell."

"I need a little nap, that's all…" Doyle smiled weakly as he closed his eyes once more. "Tell Wesley I said thanks." He mumbled nearly incoherently as he let himself fade back into unconsciousness, clearly still affected by the drugs in his system. Cordelia leaned back down to kiss his closed eyelids and wiped away the rest of his tears with her thumb.

"He's gonna be okay now." She said happily, smiling appreciatively in Angel's direction. "We're all gonna be okay."

* * *

"Mr. Doyle, if you walk out of here right now, it's against the advisement of this hospital. You are not being officially discharged."

The nervous young doctor who'd taken over for Evans at the start of the day shift, stood anxiously in the door of Doyle's room, chart in hand. He watched as Doyle finished stepping into his pants, buttoning and zipping the fly. His hospital gown was thrown carelessly on the middle of the bed.

"Miss, I suggest you help me convince the patient to get back into bed." The doctor had tried appealing to Cordelia who sat idly by, with a knowing grin on her face as Doyle hastily continued to dress himself. She'd had a feeling this would happen once the IV drugs were no longer being pushed into his bloodstream. Sure enough, no sooner had Doyle been able to sit up, than he had gotten up and demanded to be let out of the hospital.

"Don't look at me." Cordelia replied innocently. "I always do my best to keep him in bed."

The doctor gave her a perplexed look, not sure if he understood her meaning quite right. Doyle, on the other hand, understood her meaning perfectly well and snorted his approval. "Listen, man. Ya release me into the hands of this beautiful lady right here, I assure ya I'll be nursed back to health in no time."

"I can't—" The doctor objected.

"You can and you will." Cordelia insisted, standing up from the chair and moving toward the wiry little man, hands firmly planted on her hips. "He's awake and non-psychotic, and you and I both know there's nothing on that chart that says there's anything medically wrong with him. Now, run out there to the front desk and get us some discharge forms. Go on." She shooed the doctor out the door and shut it behind him, turning back to see Doyle's appreciative smile.

"As if I needed another reason to love ya, darlin'." He said admiringly, as he finished buttoning his shirt.

She swallowed as he said the words so casually and offhandedly. If only he knew that every moment since he'd woken up she'd been consumed with one singular desire—to say those three all-important words to him. Only, she was trying to control herself. Trying to reserve them for a more opportune moment, one not filled with doctors and nurses and medical equipment. She was trying, but almost every word out of her mouth that wasn't one of those three, was a concerted effort.

"What good would I be if I couldn't scare the medical personnel into letting you walk out of here against their express wishes." She joked with forced breeziness as she moved to retrieve his shoes and jacket from the closet. He sat down on the side of the bed, putting on his socks, and she placed the shoes on the floor near his feet and the jacket on the bed beside him. She then stepped in between his legs, and caught his face in her hands, bringing his fatigued eyes up to meet hers. "But, I probably should advise you, Mr. Doyle…" She started off teasingly, but then her voice became sincere, letting her concern show. "Maybe you shouldn't be leaving. I mean… you're not okay. You want the doctors to think you are, but I can tell."

He placed one of his own hands on top of hers against his cheek. "I'm not okay _yet_ … but I will be. And this place won't be what makes me feel better. That's what I got you for." He lifted her hand from his face and placed a kiss in the center of her palm. "What's more, I don't wanna push my luck. It's a miracle with all this poking and prodding and scanning they didn't discover my little family secret."

Cordelia smiled down at him, dropping her other hand from his face to his shoulder. "You have Harry to thank." She clarified. "She was still listed as your next of kin, and she wouldn't authorize anything she thought might cause you to… well, _you know_. She also made up some story about a genetic mutation so they wouldn't get spooked by the blood work. It's a good thing she was here—I probably wouldn't have thought of that."

"Ah… is that right?" Doyle responded. "I couldn't for the life of me figure out why ya would've called her. I pretty much assumed it was 'cause ya thought I was dying."

"I did think you were dying." She answered bluntly, swallowing the lump in her throat and keeping her eyes locked to his soulful green ones, which had appeared so different when they weren't lit from behind by his soul. "I thought I was going to lose you."

Doyle gazed up at her with a cockeyed grin, pulling her closer to his body until she was forced to sit on his lap. Then he surprised her by kissing her full on the lips, sending a shockwave of warmth through her belly. His kiss managed to be both sweet and sizzling at the same time, and he allowed for a brief meeting of tongues before he pulled back and placed a gentle peck on the tip of her nose. "Feel better now?"

"Mostly." She said, enjoying the feeling of being held in his arms and wishing she could teleport them to an alternate location, where they could stay entwined for hours, just the two of them.

Well, teleporting was out of the question, but she did have a car. That would just have to do.

Doyle was searching her face, probably trying to ascertain why she was only feeling "mostly" better, rather than completely better. "What is it?" He probed, sensing there was something being left unsaid. She could tell he was unlikely to let her wriggle out of his arms without saying it. That much was clear by the way he locked his fingers together around her waist, making no attempt to continue his mad dash from the hospital. "Ya still sore 'bout that fight we had the other day?"

"No! That's _so_ not important." She assured him, dismissing any mention of the pre-crisis argument she wanted to strike from the record. "It's just… ugh, this isn't right. I don't want to tell you here."

"Tell me what?" Doyle asked with a bemused expression. "You're starting to worry me, Princess. And I'm not sure my heart can take the stress after all it's been through. Whatever it is ya need to say, I'm thinking ya should just spit it out before they have a code blue on their hands—"

"I love you!" She blurted out, not intending to put quite so much volume behind it. She watched as his eyes widened to their fullest circumference and his jaw dropped slightly open. "That's it. That's what I wanted to say. I'm totally and completely in love with you and I probably should've told you sooner, because I've felt that way for a while now. I mean, I wanted to tell you, but… " She trailed off, dropping her eyes to her lap and fidgeting with her bracelets as she kept babbling nervously. "When you were lying there, I was scared that you'd never have a chance to hear me say it—I've never regretted _not_ saying something so much in my entire life. Which really validates my whole 'think it, say it' philosophy, don't you think?"

Doyle's jaw still hung open, but the curve of his mouth was raised distinctly upward, and she could see the smile in his eyes well before it reached the rest of his face. "Can't say I disagree in this instance." He lifted one hand to cup her cheek, stroking her lightly with his thumb. "But, y'know what they say, darlin', actions speak louder than words. You've been showing me ya love me for longer than ya realize."

"I have?" She asked in relieved surprise. "So… you knew."

Doyle nodded slowly, still holding her close to him. "Not saying I didn't want to hear it, though." He clarified. "I always want to hear what's on your mind. Especially something like that."

"Oh, you'll be hearing everything there is to hear." She said sincerely, and then poked him in the chest with her index finger. "Starting with this: if you ever almost die on me again, there will be hell to pay, buster!"

"I love you, too, Princess." He replied softly, pulling her close for another lingering kiss. "Now we'd better get outta here, so you can tell me how much ya love me while you're tucking me into your bed and nursing me back to my full potential, yeah?"

Cordelia somewhat reluctantly pulled herself off his lap, so he could lean over and put on his shoes. She gave a nervous giggle. "Um, there's probably something else I should tell you… Angel's staying at my place right now."

Doyle slipped his foot into the second shoe and paused to toss her a puzzled eyebrow raise. "Why would he go and do a thing like that?"

"He doesn't have anywhere else to live on account of his apartment kinda…blowing up." She announced, giving Doyle a cute little shrug as his head whipped up in her direction.

"It blew up?!" Doyle choked in horror.

"Yeah, did I forget to mention that?" She asked.

"And now ya have a houseguest who's stuck inside all day long." Doyle shook his head as he finished tying his shoes and stood carefully from the bed. "Well, we're all family, yeah?"

"We are." She agreed, slipping her arm around Doyle's waist to help stabilize him. He grabbed his jacket from where it lay on the bed and they made their way out of the hospital and home to where Angel waited.


	52. To Shanshu in LA, Pt 5

**"To Shanshu in L.A.," Part V**

Doyle stretched his legs out across the couch and let his head sink into the freshly fluffed pillows behind him. He wasn't likely to get tired of this anytime soon.

Since his release from the hospital, Cordelia had been waiting on him hand and foot. Insisting that he do nothing but rest while she brought him meals—some of which were actually edible, others which he choked down anyway, just because she'd made them. She was also very generous with the TV remote and the neck massages. It was nice having her worry over him, although he had to admit, her apartment was starting to feel a little claustrophobic, what with all the salvageable books and files and weapons from Angel's apartment piled up around the place.

Not to mention, Angel himself, who was currently sitting quietly on a weapons chest in the corner of the room.

Angel's concern for Doyle's health was a relief in more ways than one. It meant Doyle was wrong about Angel being disconnected from the world. He was connected to him and them... and that would keep him going. Doyle could see that now, and all his disappointment about the stupid prophecy had been pushed aside. Because as long as they were all together, they could do this. They could win this fight. And whatever came after... well, as Cordelia had pointed out, nothing lasts forever. Their story would end eventually, but hopefully it'd be a long time before they got there.

"Here's something..." Wesley said, sitting up straight from his place at the dining table. "The beast of Amalfi, a razor toothed six-eyed harbinger of death." He'd finally been released from the hospital, and although he wasn't getting the full Nurse Cordelia treatment, she had taken to feeding him while he was under her roof. Especially, since he was so insistent on continuing with the translation of the scroll of Aberjian. Something Doyle considered fairly futile, but they were Wesley's brain cells to do with as he pleased.

"Amalfi... Isn't that due to arise in 2003 in Reseda?" Doyle said helpfully.

Wesley traced his eyes down the page and shook his head in only mild surprise at this point. He'd resigned himself to the fact that Doyle knew things he couldn't possibly explain. "Yes... it does appear you're right. As usual."

"You need to stop telling him that." Cordelia instructed, as she entered the room and plopped a sandwich down on the table beside Wesley. "It's going straight to his head. Now eat up. You'll need your strength in order to figure out exactly when Angel's gonna croak."

Angel smirked from his place in the corner, but said nothing, while Doyle pulled himself up into a more upright position on the couch. "I see we've given up on being delicate about the whole death prophecy thing, then, have we, darlin'?"

Cordelia had moved across the room to place another sandwich on the coffee table beside Doyle. She gave him a perky smile as she replied. "Angel doesn't want me to be delicate. He likes me just the way I am. Isn't that right, Angel?"

Angel was still chuckling softly. "That's right." He assured her.

"And so do you." She reminded Doyle, leaning down to place a quick peck on his lips. "So don't try to pretend otherwise."

"When you're right, you're right." Doyle caught her by the arm before she could move away and gently pulled her close to whisper in her ear, despite the fact that he knew whispering around Angel was rather pointless. Still, it was the thought that counted. "Think ya can grab some blood for our boss, there? He'd never ask, but..."

"What do you think is in the microwave?" She assured him in a muted tone, then she stood up straight and marched back to the kitchen. "Warm O-neg coming right up!"

Doyle grinned up at the back of her head and then shifted his eyes to Angel's, which he could see were filled with gratitude as well as amusement. Cordelia may not think she'd changed all that much in the time she'd worked for Angel, but she was far too close to tell. Doyle could see, and Angel could see as well, having known her much longer. She'd come a long way. She was growing up. She still clung to some of her old defenses, but she was letting her inner self show more and more. She had finally let Doyle in, and even Angel and Wesley to a certain extent. Although Doyle had loved her just the way she was from the start, he found himself loving her all the more right now, and he had no doubt his love for her would only continue to increase in the future.

"Forget about what's in the crate, man." Doyle called over to Wesley. "I have a pretty good hunch about the mysterious creature Wolfram & Hart resurrected. It won't be remaining a secret for very long."

"Another one of your hunches?" Wesley surmised, never taking his eyes off the scroll in front of him. "I take it you're not planning to elaborate."

Doyle turned his eyes back toward Angel in a silent plea. That was all it took. "Don't worry about it, Wesley." Angel said. "We'll deal with whatever it is when we have to."

There was no response from Wesley, as he seemed to hone in on something in one of the new books he'd acquired to continue with the scroll translation. "Oops."

"What's wrong now?" Cordelia wondered, breezing out of the kitchen with a mug of warm blood in hand.

Wesley sat back in his chair, taking in the entire scroll spread out before him. "I, uh... may have made a tiny mistake. The word Shanshu that I said meant Angel was going to die? Actually... I think it means that he's going to live."

"Okay, as tiny mistakes go, that's not one." Cordelia noted coolly, as she paused beside Wesley to peer over his shoulder. "What a lame prophecy, huh? The vampire with a soul gets to live. Big whoop! He's been doing that for centuries."

Doyle swung his legs around and practically leaped from the couch. "No, he hasn't." He made his way across the room to stand at Wesley's side, which in turn, caused Angel to also stand and move to join them all around the scroll. "When you say he's gonna live... Are you saying what I think you're saying?!"

Wesley nodded up at Doyle in quiet awe. "Shanshu has roots in so many different languages. The most ancient source is the Proto-Bantu and they consider life and death the same thing, part of a cycle. Only… a thing that's not alive never dies."

"Which means in order to die, Angel's gotta be alive first, yeah?" Doyle uttered in understanding. "It's saying he's gonna be human."

"Oh my God!" Cordelia shouted, letting the mug slip from her hand in surprise. Angel caught it reflexively before it could crash land, and he managed not to spill a drop. Cordelia, still in shock, didn't even seem to notice.

"The vampire with a soul, once he fulfills his destiny, will Shanshu." Wesley read directly from the scroll, confirming Doyle's conclusion. "Live and die. Become human."

Cordelia turned to brace Angel by the shoulders with an enthusiastic hop. "Look at that, Pinocchio, you're gonna be a real boy!"

Angel smiled as wide a smile as Doyle had ever seen on him, as he inspected the mug of blood in his hands before placing it down on the far end of the table, a safe distance from the scroll. Doyle had stepped around Wesley to slap Angel on the back, and give him a wide, excited grin. "That's sounding a whole lot better than just the death part, yeah?"

"Yeah, I guess it does." Angel agreed with muted excitement, which for him was akin to a cheerleading routine.

"Is this the part where we have to admit that Doyle was right once again?" Cordelia huffed with faux-frustration, not hiding her playful smile. "Angel does get a reward. He just has to... uh, what's that thing about fulfilling his destiny or whatever?"

"Oh, yes, well..." Wesley pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. "He won't Shanshu tomorrow or the next day. He has to survive the coming darkness, the apocalyptic battles, a few plagues, and some... uh, several, not that many, fiends that will be unleashed."

"Something to look forward to." Doyle remarked dryly. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't break out the champagne anyway. This is big, man!"

"Surprise, surprise. Doyle wants to celebrate with a drink." Cordelia teased, before turning back toward the kitchen. "And thanks to his bad influence, I might just have something for us to celebrate _with_."

"I'm rubbing off on her." Doyle said proudly, heading off to the kitchen to see what she had for celebratory purposes.

If there was ever a reason to celebrate, it was this. It turned out there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, after all.

* * *

The sun had gone down and the blinds in Cordelia's living room were now raised to reveal the city lights in the distance. Wesley, having made a big enough breakthrough for one day, had called it an evening, heading back to his own apartment for some much-deserved rest. Cordelia had tried to neaten up the piles of books he left in his wake, but had taken one look at the rest of her living-room-turned-storage-unit and promptly gave up. Instead, she'd taken her glass of wine—she hadn't had any champagne, but wine was pretty close—and went to soak in the tub, while Angel and Doyle continued their celebration alone.

Their empty wine glasses now sat on the coffee table beside their feet, which were propped up side-by-side. They both had their arms folded across their chests, and while they couldn't be any different in physical appearance, there was a mirror image quality to them.

"I've gotta think that whole thing with the Mohra Demon was no accident." Doyle considered aloud. "Seems it was a preview of what's to come. A little reminder, if ya will."

"You think so?" Angel asked.

"I do." Doyle insisted. "Maybe not at the time, but in light of the prophecy—if I've learned anything doing this gig, it's that there are no such things as coincidences, man. Fate doesn't stand a chance against free will, which is why the Powers have to resort to all sorts of mysterious ways of manipulating us. It's like they're setting up dominoes, yeah? Putting us in just the right places so they can predict where we'll fall. They have to do things like give ya a chance to be human and then take it away again, so you'll remember what it felt like and desire it again. Things like sending horribly painful visions to a guy like me, who'd given up on being human but still cared enough to remember. That way I could help you remember, too."

"Things like letting you die, forcing me and Cordelia to go on without you, only to erase it all and let you live." Angel suggested, giving Doyle a meaningful look. "Those kinds of mysterious ways?"

"Some more mysterious than others." Doyle admitted. "I can't explain that one. But, I have to think there was a reason just like all the rest."

"I'm okay with never knowing what that reason is." Angel confessed. "I'm just grateful that you're here."

"Ah... you're getting all sentimental on account of me almost dying again." Doyle said with a chuckle. "But, forget all that... focus on the Shanshu! Pretty cool stuff, man. If I'm being honest, I hope it'll happen in my lifetime. Maybe we could grow old together. Sit side-by-side in an old folks home someday, just like this. Except we'll have a quality single malt instead of wine, o'course."

"Of course." Angel echoed. He grinned at first, before turning slightly more serious. "I'm glad the Powers sent you, Doyle. And if I have them to thank for sending Cordelia and Wesley in some roundabout way, I'm glad for that, too. I need all of you. More than I knew."

"Too bad ya can't send 'em a fruit basket." Doyle remarked. "Even if ya wanted to, ya can't. Not with the Oracles being dead and all."

"What does that mean in terms of speaking with the Powers That Be?" Angel wondered. "Are we completely cut off now?"

"There are other channels." Doyle answered, waving a hand as if it was no big deal. "None so polite and welcoming as those two, though. I wouldn't recommend using 'em unless absolutely necessary."

Angel dropped his legs from the coffee table and stood up, lifting his leather duster from the top of the chest he'd been sitting on earlier in the day. "Alright. Sun's down. Time for me to get to work."

"Yeah, I suppose it's your destiny to be a killjoy for at least a little while longer." Doyle chided, dropping his legs off the table as well and sitting up straight to dig into his pocket for his set of house keys. He pulled them out, held them up and gave them a little jangle. "Ya sure you wanna be staying at my place? I don't think Cordy minds having ya here half as much as she minds the rest of this junk."

Angel pointed to the weapons case in the corner. "Hey, some of those are priceless antiques."

"If it ain't a chest full of designer shoes, she's likely to think it's junk." Doyle said with a shrug. "Still... you're welcome to stay here with us, man. There's always room for family, yeah?"

"Family or not, it would be a lot less.. um, it could just get kind of..." Angel said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Awkward. For me."

"Ah, right..." Doyle's eyebrows raised in understanding and just a hint of sympathy. Even if Angel wanted to turn off his vampire senses, he couldn't. Which meant that walls and a door afforded very little in the way of privacy when he was around. "Well, my place isn't as bad as it used to be. Thanks to Cordy—she neatened it up, bought me some air freshener and all that." He tossed the keys to Angel who caught them easily. "Make yourself at home, man."

Angel swung his duster over his shoulder and made his way to the front door, giving his friend a farewell nod before heading out into the night.

* * *

Doyle opened the door to Cordelia's bedroom and found her standing in front of the mirror, wrapped only in a towel. She was smoothing lotion across one of her legs, which was propped up on the edge of a dresser drawer. He stood back, admiring the view for a moment. As she stood up straight and twisted the cap of her lotion back into place, he crept up behind her, slipping his hands around her waist and placed a kiss on her shoulder.

"Mmm." He traced his lips across the bare skin that led from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, sweeping her hair out of the way so he could continue his procession. "You smell good."

She laughed, and he felt the vibration as he nibbled up the side of her neck. "I'd better, after all the time I spent in the tub."

"You always smell good." He mumbled against her skin. His hands slid upward and cupped her breasts through the thick cotton of her towel. She leaned into him, tilting her head so he had full access to the sensitive flesh of her neck.

"I guess this means you're feeling better." She observed, her voice deepening as his lips teased her skin. He squeezed her bosom lightly in answer, giving her neck a tender bite.

She pulled away slightly, disconnecting his lips from her skin so she could turn around to face him. Her back was against the dresser and his hands landed on her hips, as she brought her own hands up to toy with his collar.

"Oh, I'm feeling much better, darlin'." Doyle agreed, waggling his eyebrows down at her. He leaned down to capture her lips, but she gently pushed back against his chest to keep him from achieving his goal.

"Because of the prophecy." She speculated, keeping her eyes buried somewhere in his upper chest. "I mean, Angel is getting a chance to be human someday. That's a pretty great reward. If that doesn't make him feel connected to the world, then nothing will."

"Yeah." Doyle agreed, keeping his eyes trained on her lips. "Makes our job easier, that's for sure."

"And…it makes you feel more connected, too, right?" She asked. "To have a point to everything—the visions, your suffering. It all serves a higher purpose. The mission is as important as you've always said it is."

He cocked a brow at her, sensing that her rhetorical questions weren't entirely rhetorical. "That's not really what makes me feel connected, no." He explained. "And it was a helluva lot harder trying to convince Angel he should connect with the human world, when I was faking it."

"When were you faking it?" She wondered, finally lifting her dark eyes to meet his pale ones.

Doyle narrowed his eyes at her in mild puzzlement, surprised that she hadn't figured it out by now. "When ya first met me, love. I think ya probably know by now how grim things were in my neck of the woods. I was in debt to more than half the loan sharks in the city, not really caring if they caught up with me or not. And…" He cleared his throat a little nervously. "The drinking may have gotten a little outta hand there for a while. I wasn't living that way 'cause it was happy fun time. I was living that way 'cause I wasn't real interested in living. I'd all but given up on ever being a part of the human world again—not in the way I used to be anyway."

He watched a wave of sadness break over her features, and her eyes were as warm and compassionate as he'd ever seen them. "And then you met Angel."

"Ah… well, yeah, I did. But it wasn't Angel that helped change my outlook on things." Doyle removed his hands from her hips, in order to place them over her hands, which were pressed against his chest. His voice was soft and sincere, and his eyes were focused deep into hers, so she'd understand he meant every word he was saying. "It was you, Princess. I thought ya knew that."

"Me?" She asked, exhaling sharply. "But I… wasn't always nice to you when we first met." She cringed a little as she reminded him of how many times he'd been cut by that sharp tongue of hers. "And you seemed fine."

"If you'd ever seen me play cards, you'd know that bluffing's my specialty." He said by way of explanation.

Cordelia's mask of sympathy remained firmly planted on her face. "You were faking it."

"Not as much as I was before ya showed up." Doyle said honestly. "Gotta say, I took one look at you and I started imagining things I hadn't thought of in years."

"Okay, the me of nine months ago would definitely say _ewwww_ and call you a perv. But, the me of right now is pretty flattered." She admitted with a smirk.

He chuckled and slipped his arms back down to her waist, naturally pulling her so she was flush against him. He dropped his voice to a softer tone as he continued explaining the things she really ought to know. "Not all of it was as scandalous as you're implying." He said, grinning down at her. "It was the _future_ that I started thinking about. Specifically, in terms of me actually having one."

"Oh." She breathed, now obviously mesmerized by his words.

He lifted one hand to pet her long thick waves, running his fingers lightly through her hair. His eyes were filled with love and tenderness as he stared down at her face, filled with the same. "You didn't just make me want to be connected. You became my connection, Cordy." He said. "Being with ya… loving ya, that's what makes me feel human."

Doyle thought for a brief moment that she was going to burst into tears, so rapid was the shift in her emotions. Instead she sucked in a shaky breath, wrapped her bare arms around his neck and urged his lips down to meet hers—it was slow and sensuous—the type of kiss that could make time stop. He could feel Cordelia's heart pounding through her chest, in perfect rhythm with his own and he found himself lifting her up to sit her on the top of the dresser, her legs wrapping around him eagerly.

"I love you, Doyle." She whispered as they took a breath between kisses. Her lips reclaimed his hungrily, not allowing for any further small talk.

His hand landed in the back of her hair, and he used it to separate their mouths once more. "Say it again."

"Haven't you heard it enough?" She asked tauntingly, smiling into yet another kiss. This one ended as soon as it began.

"Not even close." He responded, hovering just out of reach of her lips, and changing direction to kiss along her jawline. "Go on, say it." He demanded as he reached her earlobe and gave it a playful nibble.

"I love yooooouuuu!" She replied, shrieking towards the end as he suddenly lifted her off the dresser, spun her around and carried her over to the bed across the room. He dumped her playfully onto the fluffy down comforter and knelt on the bed beside her. Her towel came loose in the process, leaving her exposed to Doyle's appreciative gaze.

"You want me to say it again?" She asked huskily, leaning up on her elbows and arching a brow at him in invitation.

"Actually, if it's all the same to you, I'm thinking now ya could show me." He replied, hastily undoing the buttons on his shirt and tossing it aside.

"I am better at showing than telling." She agreed, seeing the mischievous glint in his eye and raising it by sitting up to help him remove his pants. "The future's looking pretty bright nowadays, huh?"

"Brighter than it ever has, darlin'. Brighter than it ever has…"

 **THE END**

* * *

 **A/N - Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading the whole thing! That is the end of Season One. It was a blast for me to write, and I know I've said this before, but I sincerely appreciate all the kind reviews I received along the way. You guys are awesome and it was totally your enthusiasm that kept me motivated to rack up a rather ridiculous word count here. My only hope is that this story helped to fill that empty Doyle-shaped place in your hearts. :)**


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